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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393898">I Speak Because I Can</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosierey/pseuds/rosierey'>rosierey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peaky Blinders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Disability, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, These Men Have Mummy Issues, Time Skips, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:53:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosierey/pseuds/rosierey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Where do you go when there's no one to trust? Fucking Margate, of course</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>PROLOGUE: TOMMY</p><p>Salty spray clings to the wool of his coat, the same way smog does in the Birmingham streets, the stench of horse manure at the races. It all gets pressed and washed away, and the evidence of the day along with it. When his back hits the damp sand, Tommy realises that this time the damage is irreversible.</p><p>It takes a minute of staring at the blue, endless blue sky before the ringing in his ears quiets and the pain sets in. Tommy grits his teeth, rolls to the side clutching his bleeding arm. He looks down his prostrate form to the motionless body a few feet away. Waves break and gulls call, swarming and diving above the sea. Cyril whines and sniffs at his master's bloodied beard. Alfie's bloody face.</p><p>Tommy stands, gun hanging loosely in his hand. He'd somehow managed to keep his hat on. Blood seeps between the gaps of his fingers into the wool of his coat. Cyril whines a little louder, tail no longer wagging. He's seen blood soak into turf and black soil, into water and cobblestones, onto the shiny floor of a ballroom from the heart of the woman he loved. The sand seems to eat up the red, turning it clay coloured and dark. Tommy can't bring himself to look at the damage.</p><p>He walks away. Staggering the first few steps, still dazed. It reminds him of a lifetime ago when he staggered across a plowed field away from his near death. He's too numb to fall down and yell this time. The car is a pinprick at the edge of a desert but Tommy keeps his eyes on it for something to keep him steady. It bleeds closer like ink blotting a page, and the blood drips from the barrel of the gun in time to his footsteps.</p><p>When he reaches it he's breathing hard, opening the drivers side door and tossing the gun in the foot-well. The open door shelters him from the wind as he lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, the smoke soaking into his freezing bones. He faces away from the beach, staring at the leather interior of the car as he cleans himself off, brushing the sand off his neck and arms. The filter tastes coppery, he takes it out of his mouth and looks at the trail of blood from beneath his sleeve to the tip of his pinkie. He sniffs, turns his hand over and looks at the smear of it across the tips of his fingers, staining the cigarette butt. They're shaking.</p><p>Once his pulse calms Tommy turns back to the beach. The shape of him is starkly black against the white sand, unmoved. The dog is still inspecting the body. Tommy watches it circle him, nosing his leg, then back to his head. Aflie's voice appears in his head, resigned and vaguely patronising as always.</p><p>"Fuck," Tommy mutters around the half smoked cigarette. He takes it from between his lips, flicking it off to one side. "Fuck." He's going to do it, the bastard knew he would.</p><p>Without more deliberation Tommy crossed the sand. The wind seems to propel him, whipping at his coattails, it feels like a blink of an eye and then he's standing a few feet from the red sand. Cyril doesn't acknowledge him, his whines have become one continuous wavering noise that prickles Tommy's skin.</p><p>"Here," Tommy tries. The big beast huffs against Alfie's pale cheek. "Cyril. Here, come." He waves a hand and pats his leg. Cyril looks at him then, with dopey dark eyes. He pads over with a certain reluctance that Tommy finds unnervingly intelligent for such a dumb looking beast. Tommy keeps his eyes on the dog, petting his head and ignoring the red in his peripheral.</p><p>It takes a few attempts to coax Cyril away from the body, Tommy ends up leading him by his collar which doesn't help the throbbing in his arm. When they reach the car again, Cyril politely sits and waits for Tommy to pat the passenger seat before jumping up. Remarkably agile for its size. Tommy wonders just how often Alfie drove around with Cyril in the passenger seat like this because Cyril sits and looks out of the window calmly, tail patting the leather gently. It's amusing to think of Aflie's driver sitting up front with the dog while Aflie lounges in the back. Then he feels sick again.</p><p>"Right, long drive ahead," he mutters as he gets in behind the wheel and starts the car. Cyril huffs as if to say 'you don't say'. Tommy rests his toe on the peddle, frozen for a moment before looking across the beach on last time at the body. Tommy doesn't do regret, it's a feeling he either doesn't have or lost when he lost her. What's there to regret when you've lost what you lived for, anyway? And yet, the feeling gnaws in his gut as he looks on.</p><p>"Sun down in a few hours, Cyril. Tide'll be coming in soon." Tommy drives.</p><p>-3 hours later-</p><p>It's dark when he arrives, but light from the house still pouring into the driveway guiding him home. Maybe it's blood-loss or exhaustion, perhaps something else entirely, but Tommy nearly collapses as he steps down onto the gravel. He catches himself on the door, wheezing through his nose then righting himself. When he opens the passenger door Cyril stands from where he'd laid an hour into the journey, drooling all over the leather. Tommy steps back and gestures expectantly, and Cyril cocks his head and stares back just as expectant.</p><p>"You've got to be joking," Tommy sighed. "You can get in a car by yourself but can't get out? What did he do, eh? Lift you? I don't fucking thing so." He stomps a few feet away and lights another cigarette, taking a calming breath. He rubs his forehead in frustration. It's cold and for once in his bloody life Tommy wants to sleep. With a sigh, he goes back to the car where Cyril sits waiting patiently.</p><p>"Fine. Fine!" With a grunt, Tommy gets his arms under the dog and hoists him out and onto the gravel- thanking his lucky stars for the lack of light and witnesses.</p><p>It's too late for Charlie to be awake but Francis meets him at the door, going bug-eyed at the sight of the dog trailing Tommy.</p><p>"M-Mr. Shelby?"</p><p>"Francis, meet Cyril. Cyril, Francis," the ludicrousness of the introduction isn't lost of Tommy- especially with Francis' deeply disturbed look between him and the dog, as if they are conspirators of a practical joke. Tommy clears his throat. "He'll need feeding. And walking."</p><p>"Yes, Mr. Shelby... Charlie might enjoy helping walk him," she replies, taking a tiny step back as Cyril approaches her and sniffs at the hem of her dress.</p><p>"Right," Tommy nods and coughs. His arm is starting to ache now, though it'd stopped bleeding a while ago. He passes his hat off to Francis but not his coat- in the dimly lit hall the blood soaking his jacket beneath would show up and shock the woman. She seemed spooked enough by the dog's presence. "I'm going to bed."</p><p>"Would you like supper bou-"</p><p>"No, thank you, Francis," he calls back, from the staircase. It take a tremendous effort to reach the master bedroom, the corridors echoing with his slow footsteps.</p><p>The door shuts behind him and Tommy sighs, sinking against it and tipping his head back. Eventually the will power to move returns and he goes to the vanity where a box of iodine, needle and thread wait. His hands have stopped shaking but in their stead they feel weighted, under-water. In the silence of the room with no engine purring or dog panting he can hear the waves again, gently lapping at the back of his mind. Sand, clay-red.</p><p>The iodine stinks, sticking to back of his throat so Tommy finds the gin in another draw and drinks from the bottle. But the two smells seem to curdle and make him feel sicker. He hugs one arm to his bare stomach, leaning forward in the chair on his other elbow. The soft light catches on the bottle's curved glass, warping the shape of the room. The shape of dark figures in the shadows. Hers, his, theirs. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and breathes raggedly.</p><p>Scratching makes his eyes pop open like blisters, a sudden rush of panic welling in his chest. He staggers up, chair toppling beneath him, staring at the wall. The spades. No, no, no. Then he notices the shadow under the door, a muffled whine accompanying the next bout of scratches.</p><p>"Fucking-" Tommy gasps, pressing the ball of his palm to his forehead.</p><p>When he opens the door Cyril barges his way in, unbothered by Tommy's ragged breathing. He glares at the beast as he starts inspecting the room.</p><p>"Oh, Mr. Shelby, I'm so sorry," Francis' gasps, appearing in the door, flustered. "He got away from me in the kitchen."</p><p>"S'alright, Francis," Tommy mutters, watching the dog. Its silent and thorough inspection stops at the bed, where it jumps up onto the neatly tucked in covers. Francis gasps as Cyril turns in a circle and lays down. The fucking audacity of the hound almost makes Tommy smile. Makes him think of Alfie.</p><p>"I'll remove him right away so you can get some sleep, sir-"</p><p>"S'fine," Tommy says without thinking.</p><p>"Sir-"</p><p>"He makes for good company, Francis, doesn't argue back. That'll be all, thank you." She looks at him, once more bewildered, but steps back out of way so he can close the door. He turns the lock and looks at Cyril, hands on his hips. There is a haunting familiarity about him that unnerves Tommy in his blurred state. What a pair he and Alfie must've made, staring down clients and buyers in the distillery with matching flat gazes.</p><p>"One night," Tommy says aloud. It feels mightily stupid but no more so than when he listens to his ghosts. "That's all you get. Then it's into the fuckin' kitchen with you, eh?" Cyril makes a curious sounding noise, tail thumping twice. With a sigh, Tommy sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes and trousers. It's a big bed but of course the dog chose the center to settle in so Tommy ends up at an angle.</p><p>Once the weight of the blanket settles over him, so does sleep, encouraged by gin and exhaustion. Tommy's eyelids droop and the awkward position stops feeling so bothersome, the ache in his arm reduced to a whisper. He hums to himself, and listens to Cyril snuffle and breathe noisily. He's asleep before the shovels can start digging.</p><p>-6 Months Later-</p><p>The glasses clink sweetly as Tommy picks through them, standing toy-soldiers across his office floor. There's one with a little left somewhere. He shuffles clumsily to reach the next, kicking another over and cursing to himself. The sixth one he checks has a few fingers left and he makes a triumphant noise, straightening and swaying on his heels. Everything starts to blur and wobble so he seeks refugee back behind his desk.</p><p>Among the broken matches and ashtray he finds his glass, crystal glinting in the morning light peeking through the heavy curtains. He leans his elbow on the desk and turns the glass slowly, watching the light ebb and spark across the etched pattern. Sometimes he forgets where he is, that he's much more than a veteran boy from France now- big house, big horses, big cars. Sometimes it doesn't feel real.</p><p>"Sir?"</p><p>He blinks, moving the glass aside to see the timid mouse that is Francis lingering in the doorway. She looks- as far as he can tell at this distance, blurred by gin- expectant like she's waiting for the answer to a question Tommy didn't hear.</p><p>"What was that, Francis?"</p><p>"I have the mail for you, sir, just a few letters," she holds up the thin bundle tied up with string. Tommy nods slowly and waves his occupied hand, beckoning her. She cautiously crosses the room, eyeing the newspapers and bottles.</p><p>"Thank you," he says curtly, or as curtly as he can manage. It's just three letters, two white, one yellow- he puts them down between his elbows and lights a cigarette. Francis bobs her head and goes to the door, pausing at the threshold.</p><p>"Charlie asks if you'll be joining him for breakfast, sir."</p><p>"Not today, Francis," Tommy mumbles around his cigarette, shuffling the letters like a deck of cards. "Not today." He repeats softly, they both know it means not tomorrow either, not for breakfast, lunch or dinner; but she'll ask anyway. For Charlie.</p><p>The door clicks shut and he's left with his smoke and his letters. The first is from Ada, her flimsy handwriting curling his address across expensive paper. He lays it neatly to one side, no wishing to indulge her attempts at a guilt-trip this early in the day. The second takes a moment of Tommy squinting at the typeface before he scoffs and tosses it aside. It's from the doctor Polly had made an appointment for him with. One that he did not attend.</p><p>The third, a yellow heavy gauge paper, is blank. Tommy turns it over between his hands, looking for any clues but there are none. Perhaps, on any other day, he would've been more suspicious but it doesn't occur to him with gin on the mind. The shiny, silver letter-opener had been lost days ago among the contents of the desk so he digs his thumb under the seal and tears it open.</p><p>It's the same paper inside, folded a little sloppily in half. The single page is crowded with narrow, equally sloppy, handwriting that he can't make out. Tommy takes a long drag of his cigarette before balancing it on the ashtray and blindly fumbling for his glasses. Setting them on his nose and picking up his cigarette, he starts to read.</p><p>As the words sink in, rambling and raging and horrifying, Tommy goes cold. He's frozen but can't stop reading, eyes skittering across the page. He reads the whole thing twice more before the ash falls from his cigarette onto his leg and he jerks to life. He stands unsteadily, still staring at the letter as he lays it down and brushing his lap.</p><p>His hands are shaking, scattering more ash over the paper. The writing is so cramped, sloppy and mashed in places, Tommy tries to remember the last time saw Alfie's hand writing- they either spoke in person or through obscurely worded telegrams. He touches the words with his fingertips, muffling Alfie's voice in his mind. Closing his eyes, Tommy turns away and goes to the picture window. He realises he's shivering all over, even his lip is trembling as he runs the filter against it.</p><p>Sunlight, cigarettes and the house-coat wrapped tightly to his chest don't subside the shakes. Tommy wonders if he'll just shake apart, a pile of rubble to be found at his desk by the maid. It isn't fear, nor shock, he almost isn't surprised that Alfie would have live. Stubborn bastard. He realises he's smiling a little and chuckles, blinking away the burning sensation behind his eyes. Must be the gin.</p><p>It isn't until later- much later, after Polly has come and gone and Tommy has felt the sparks of a new scheme in his head- that he returns to the letter.</p><p>The maids clean the rest of the office, with instructions not to touch the newspapers or the desk. Tommy takes a long bath while they do, lounging back with the fire crackling next to him, singeing his arm hairs. He soaks, and soaks away the booze. Well, most of it. Even politicians drink. He smiles a little to himself and takes a sip of whiskey.</p><p>For the first time in weeks he dresses; suit and shoes, freshly cut hair and glasses, tie pin and pocket square. In the mirror there is the form of a man he knows, and at the same time is a stranger. He touches the knot at his throat, wondering who this man is and how he fits into this skin. There's a flash of blonde behind him, catching his eyes in the mirror through the open door.</p><p>"Charlie?" He calls sternly, knowing the boy is supposed to be at lessons right now. He goes out into the corridor and finds it empty, no echo of footsteps or giggle of a mischievous boy at play. Perhaps it was a maid. (There are no blonde maids.)</p><p>Dismissing it, he walks to the drawing-room and peers through the doorway, seeing Charlie quietly at work with his tutor leaning over him. He's growing up so fast, sharp eyes and sandy hair like his mother. It reminds Tommy of the unborn child waiting for him out there, a girl Polly said. He sighs.</p><p>With a new unlit cigarette in his mouth he enters his office, freshly cleaned and aired of the stench of tobacco and alcohol. On the coffee table the newspapers he had been hoarding are neatly stacked according to date. His desk is still a state, though removed of bottles and the ashtray emptied. He stands behind it and sorts through everything, stacking papers and moving framed pictures back into an upright position. He pauses when he finds the yellow paper.</p><p>He had abandoned it and with all thought of Alfie Solomon's, of driving down to Margate and doing it right this time. All the man had asked was about his dog, some idle threats mixed in there like it was any other conversation they'd had. He touches the letters of his name at the top of the page conjuring Alfie's voice.</p><p>After a minute or two of boring a hole in the pages, Tommy picks them up and takes out his lighter. The edge of the page blackens and curls as it catches. He holds it up to his cigarette and lights the end on the flames, taking a long drag as he watches the words dissolve. The evidence. When half the page is burnt up he lays it in the ashtray and watches it until it becomes blackened shreds.</p><p>PROLOGUE: ALFIE</p><p>He'd never been a fan of the sea. The seaside, yes, but certainly not the fridge black water or even dipping a toe in the cursed depths. The seaside is quiet most of the year, apart from those few months where the sand is packed to the gills with tourists from the interior. Alfie always liked the peace of the colder months, the beaches that went on for days without a soul in sight.</p><p>But he had been afraid of the water as a child, too big and too deep for one so young to comprehend. It seems appropriate to be woken by the salty, freezing laps of it on the shore of whatever circle of hell this is. It wakes him, then he's woken further by the searing pain.</p><p>Alfie gasps then chokes, phlegm and sea water catching on his bear. The sky is shades of pink and warm yellow. He's freezing and he can't seem to move, one side of his body soaked heavy by sea water. He looks at it in confusion, the shimmering visage of foamy water retreating in anticipation of another wave. If this is hell, he thinks, it looks a lot like Margate.</p><p>Finally, his limbs start cooperating and he raises a shaking hand to the source of his pain. He yells hoarsely when he fingers touch the mess on the left side of his face. They come away dark and bloody. The next wave slaps his shoulder and forces Alfie to struggle up onto his elbow, groaning at the way his face feels half melted, sliding grotesquely down his cheek.</p><p>Everything seems dimmer, maybe there's blood in his eye and he can't wipe it away. He does make out the black car pulling up at the pier, but it feels like he's looking at it through a tunnel. There's no Tommy, no dog, no death. He's in fucking Margate and he's alive.</p><p>"Fuckin' hell," he croaks, blood seeping through his teeth as he grits them. There are two dark figures crossing the sand. That's right he called them; Ollie and Gob, someone to find his body. He's a damned and bad-man but even the damnable men are sat with and buried. Not washed away, not left to the sea.</p><p>The pain seems to burn hotter and hotter. Alfie droops back into the wet sand that sinks under his elbows like he might disappear under the sand before the water takes him. He's not worried, or he doesn't have the capacity to be at the moment. They'll get to him when they get to him for now he can watch the sunset and wonder what this all means. Where is his dog?</p><p>"Cyril?" Someone calls the pups name and Alfie realises it's him, hand patting about in the sand like he could summon him. "Cyril?"</p><p>"Boss? Fuckin'- Boss, we're here."</p><p>"Not quite," Alfie replies. Ollie's voice seems a thousand yards away, back across the same, across the dirt, all the way back in Camden. There are hands on his shoulders, holding him like they're going to stop the life from seeping out the hole in his face. He can't see. Where's the dog, hm? "Where'd you take him, Tommy?"</p><p>"Tommy 'in't here, boss, c'mon we're gonna get you some-"</p><p>-3 days later-</p><p>Some what?</p><p>Alfie blinks, eyelid heavy. He can feel his body but it moves before he does or maybe after, hand rising from the white, white sheet to touch his own chest. That's morphine that is, he knows the feeling. The searing pain is all wrapped up in cotton and sheets, still there but far, far away. His hand clumsily climbs his chest like a spider until he finds the bandages on his face, covering half of it.</p><p>Right, Margate.</p><p>"Yes, Mr. Samson, you're in Margate." A face appears, round and womanly, attached to a white uniform. "I'm Natalie, we've been taking care of you for the last few days."</p><p>Samson? Fuckin' Ollie. Alfie grunts and looks over her shoulder at the window, big and crowded with blue sky. "Have you now, well, 's nice," he says, voice coming out slurred. He hates morphine. "How maybe days?"</p><p>"Three, Mr. Samson, you've been heavily sedated until now due to the pain."</p><p>"Pain, right." Alfie runs his fingers over the bandages again, then applies a little pressure, trying to feel something. He keeps pressing until a weak hand grabs at his wrist.</p><p>"Sir, please, carefully your eye-"</p><p>"MY eye," Alfie roars, shoving his arm out of Natalie's grip and sending her staggering, plain shock appearing on her face. "Is it? Hm? He fuckin' took it, it's his now! And my fucking dog!" He keeps yelling and cursing until another nurse and doctor appear, sticking him with a needle and sending him back into the heavy cradle of unconsciousness.</p><p>The next time he wakes it's dark. The room is lit with warm yellow lights, casting shadows that curl up the walls. Alfie blinks slowly, watching them, morphine making him feel soggy like he's still at the shore wrapped in a soaked coat, weighing him down. At least he's warm and dry.</p><p>"Mr. Samson?"</p><p>A new girl appears, looking timid and clutching a tray against her ribs. It doesn't hide the tremor. Alfie watches her set it down on the bedside table, looks at the soup and tea and feels his stomach ache.</p><p>"Scared the other girl, hm? Natalie?" Alfie asked, remembering her pale face as he'd passed out. The girl nods, hands clutched over her stomach. It reminds Alfie of the boy he'd watched in the mud, watched try and gather up his guts and hold them in even as the life left him. He looks away. It doesn't haunt him like the other men who served, he doesn't dream of it, but occasionally he gets reminded by the smallest gesture or noise. Feels like a trigger pulled next to his ear, leaves his head ringing.</p><p>"Yes... you gave her a bit of a fright," she says cautiously, Alfie chuckles.</p><p>"Send her my sincerest apologises, I was in a bit of distress you see," he says mildly, gesturing to his face. It surprises him they didn't strap him down, doctors have done it before. "Some-cunt took a chunk out of my face, y'see. Couldn't do the job right, half-arsed it. How's he gonna look after my dog if he can't even shoot a man proper?"</p><p>"They said you were in an accident," the nurse replies weakly.</p><p>"Hm, did they now. Said my name was Samson too," Alfie strokes his beard, wondering where Ollie and Gob are. It takes a minute for him to realise the nurse is still there, watching him with wide, curious eyes. "Sorry, love, morphine's making everything-" He waves a hand in front of his face vaguely but she nods like she understands.</p><p>"Try to eat something, sir, I'll be back to give you your next dose in an hour."</p><p>Alfie watches the shadows stretching up the wall as her footsteps echo in retreat. He remembers when everything was lit by candle light, the way it would make the shadows dance. His mother would tell him stories, old fables from her home that his younger-self would listen to in earnest and believe. They don't dance anymore. He wills them too with his mind, but they stay, spectral and looming. The soup goes cold.</p><p>The third time Alfie wakes there's daylight pouring over him. The tray of food is gone and his face throbs but with no real pain, still subdued by the drugs. He grunts and lifts his hand, waving his fingers in a pattern in the light. He's still alive. Even the great, unrepentant king couldn't kill him. Cancer couldn't kill him, the fuckin' war to end all wars couldn't kill him. So... he's immortal. Alfie laughs hoarsely, dropping his hand on his chest and feeling his ribs rise and fall.</p><p>"Boss?" He rolls his head to the side and finds Ollie a few feet away, looking awkward, clutching his hat in front of him like the nurse with the tray.</p><p>"Ollie, you've been absent," Alfie says, waving him over. Ollie pulls up a chair.</p><p>"Yeah, Al- yeah, was making sure everythin' was in order, like you asked."</p><p>Alfie waits, blinking at the boy then prompts: "And?"</p><p>"Everyone's got their pay 'nd John is sortin' out finding jobs for the drivers and bakers," Ollie explains. "I told your housekeeper the place was hers an' she almost fainted." Aflie hums, almost smiling, Lovely Jewish Grandmother, her family will pack the place with life as it should be. "Everyone believes your dead, sir. It's- it's all done."</p><p>"Yeah... yeah, good lad. I've got one more thing for you to do, Ollie."</p><p>He looks at Alfie with wide eyes. "Sure, boss, anything."</p><p>"Find out where my fuckin' dog is."</p><p>-6 Months Later-</p><p>The novelty of waking up to the sound of seagulls wears off very fast, Alfie finds. He sits on his balcony in a reclined chair propped up by cushions, and watches ugly birds caw noisily. On the little table next to him, Ann has left a cup of tea with a neat fan on biscuits around it. Beside that sits Alfie's gun, his pipe, some matches and an egg cup. Inside the egg cup sit his pills, a fine little collection for him to take once a day- along with the pain-killers after food. That's what he sees every morning now, serenaded by Seagulls.</p><p>The codeine is already settling in, easing the tension from his aching body and aching face that throbs in time to his heartbeat. It unnerves him how fast it works and how fast it wears off these days. A few weeks back he had gotten a look at his face for the first time, at the mangled skin and milky eye. It'd disturbed him at first, seeing his unseeing eye. He'd quietly removed the mirror from the bathroom a few days later.</p><p>It wasn't vanity, he's not a peacock not like Sabini always was, and Tommy. The sight of it just... exhausts him. Reminds him he is hurt and in pain, seems to amplify the feelings. Just as quietly Ann had removed the bedroom mirror the next day. Alfie upped her pay the one after that.</p><p>Alfie sighs heavily, tapping a pattern on the blanket covering his legs. He definitely feels twice his age now, tucked up in a quilt and having tea served to him by a live-in nurse. Retirement. It doesn't suit him. He's going mad- well, madder but the codeine keeps him from losing it completely. Pain makes a man go mad faster than it makes him honest. Shooting the birds and the ships helps too, though Ann doesn't approve.</p><p>He picks up his tea and drinks a mouthful before picking up the cup of pills and tossing them back, swallowing both smoothly. It's looking like a lovely day, wisps of clouds decorating a blue sky. Alfie watches them as he drinks more tea. On the beach bellow a couple walk, wrapped up warm in the early morning chill that Spring brings. A few feet ahead a dog bounds at the edge of the water, bark faint as he chases the waves.</p><p>"Ann," Alfie calls, eyes on the black hound. She appears like he conjured her on thin air or maybe he just lost some time in the haze.</p><p>"Yes, Mr. Solomons?"</p><p>"Any paper layin' around? Something I can write on? I need to send a letter."</p><p>"Ollie's visiting in a few days, sir, he-"</p><p>"No, no," Alfie interjects, flapping a hand. "This isn't to him, it's to my dog."</p><p>Ann looks down at him, then toward the dog that's now skipping at its owners feet. She heaves a very controlled sigh, having gotten used to Alfie's eccentricity now, and goes into the drawing room.</p><p>It takes a while to write. Alfie finds his fingers uncooperative and his sight doesn't help the legibility of his scrawls. He bows over the page, pen moving very carefully, balanced on a thesaurus in his lap. By the time he signs off his back is aching and his fingers are strained. He can't entirely recall everything he wrote, overwhelmed by passionate anger and the theatricality his mother insisted his father gave him. He folds it indelicately and tucks it into the envelope, briefly running his fingers over the yellowish paper.</p><p>When Ollie arrives three days later he almost forgets about it until Ann reminds him.</p><p>"The letter, Mr. Solomons," she prompts after several minutes of musing Ollie's question 'is there anything else, boss?'. Truth be told Alfie had forgotten what the kid's had asked, distracted by another big ship on the horizon. He stops stroking his beard and looks at her, then at Ollie who's looking wide-eyed.</p><p>"Right," Alfie lifts his finger in the air as he remembers. "Yeah, got a little errand for you, Ollie. Couple extra quid if you do it fast." He picks up his copy of Aesop's Fables and opens it at the tale of the bird in borrowed feathers where the letter sits below the illustration of a Crow with a Peacock feather in his wings. He takes it out and replaces the book, offering the envelope to Ollie. The boy takes it cautiously, turning it over and looking at the blank back.</p><p>"There's no address."</p><p>"No. That's 'cause you know where it's headed, right?" Alfie says sternly, peering at him. The only person who his eye doesn't bother is Ann, who'll meet his stubborn gaze with one of its equal. Ollie, however, is not made of such strong stuff and he looks down at the letter.</p><p>"You don't mean-"</p><p>"Oh, but I do, Ollie. And don't be putz about it, yeah? Stick it in the postman's bag when he ain't lookin', no bribes. Get it?"</p><p>Ollie swallows and nods. "Yes, boss."</p><p>"There's a good lad, now get out."</p><p>The boy scurries from the living room and there's a brief, quiet conversation in the hall before the front door opens and closes. Anne comes in with a fresh cup of tea that she places on the coffee table.</p><p>"Strange and dark days ahead, Edith," Alfie murmurs, watching the ship drift at the foot of a stormy grey sky.</p><p>"It's almost lunch-time?" Anne says, blatantly ignoring his musings. "I can put on some soup." She goes to the balcony and shuts the doors, warping the view behind old panes of glass but Alfie can still feel the storm in his aching bones.</p><p>"Sounds fabulous."</p><p>Later he takes a bath instead of dinner, soaking in hot water and oils as the sciatica burns the last of his energy away. The latch windows rattle as the weather finally hits, shaking the house to its very foundations. He's not worried. On the coast they build their houses to last and live like they could get washed away next week. The old house groans and Alfie groans with it, two old beings built to last.</p><p>He dreams. (It becomes a reoccurring vision for months afterwards until another specter turns up to haunt his doorstep). He dreams of Tommy which isn't unusual, the Brummie bastard features in many a dream of his, but this is different because it is not just a dream. It's the future. He can tell by the smell, potent black country that clings to the back of your throat. He can tell by the look of Tommy Shelby stood in the dewy grass, dressed to the nines, a haunted look on his face.</p><p>Before him a big, black horse stands calmly although she exudes danger. Her long mane sways in the wind like reeds in a breeze. Obsidian, beastly eyes blink at Tommy as he raises a gun. Now, Alfie cannot tell who the barrel faces, the horse and the man aren't any different here. The gun goes off and Alfie topples backward out of the dream and into his bed, cold sweat clinging to his brow. He blinks in the dark and listens to his blood pound in his ears.</p><p>The house gets cold at night- in the mornings it's warmed up by the time Alfie wakes by Joann stoking a fire and warming the oven for fresh bread. His back protests as he gets up, finding his dressing down and his cane before going out. He seeks refuge in the living room, easing himself onto the sofa with a groan and laying the cane between his thighs. The drapes are open and Alfie watches the storm rage outside, a world away.</p><p>Lamplight blossoms from the hallway and pours into the living-room as Joann  appears. She's watches Alfie for a moment then disappears. Alfie ignores her like the rest of his ghosts but that seems to suit her just fine. She returns with a tray, tea for two set neatly upon it and takes the chair opposite Alfie. They sit in silence as she drinks her tea and Alfie ignores his in favour of watching the storm.</p><p>"Dark days indeed, Mr. Solomons," she says quietly. Ah, that's right. Joann  isn't one of his ghost, she's haunted just like him. Alfie relaxes into the sofa and hums in agreement, wondering just who the darkest of days will belong to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Horse That Lost Its Liberty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>finally an update, apologises for the long wait!</p><p>Post series 5 now begins now</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It isn't a surprise when Tommy Shelby returns to his doorstep in Margate. Alfie had listened to the broadcast and waited and waited and waited some more. He had smoked his pipe calmly by the open balcony window as the program came to a close and the hosts bid their listeners farewell. Sometimes (when he'd been on a heavier dose of medicine or that's what Ann suggested it was) he would hear the radio when it wasn't on, words and music from some other time or place. For a while he had stayed there as if the radio might come to life just like that and announce the brutal assassination of the countries beloved Mr. Mosley. Only when the sun and all its colours seeped beneath the horizon and the dark swarmed into its place did Alfie go to bed. </p><p>His men were paid beforehand, and content with making a ruckus for that fascist cunt, but Alfie feels cheated. Even concerned. When Tommy had sat in the armchair and told him exactly what he wanted to do Alfie saw the Crow beneath the Peacock feathers, the same obsidian black eyes as the mare in his dream blinking at him. Tommy is the hungriest beast Alfie has ever met, consuming everything around him with not a soul to stop him. Now Alfie wonders if perhaps Mosley is that soul, though he's certain the cunt doesn't have one. </p><p>Days pass, much the same as they had before and the radio tells him exactly nothing has changed. He knows better, that darkness has been brewing for years and finally he can see it approaching across that big black ocean. Every morning red skies greet him but Alfie is a shepherd no more and must watch it with the patience of a much wiser and resigned man. Ollie told him a few weeks back his woman is expecting their first child and for the first time in a long time Alfie finds himself afraid. Children are being born and it's their blood that will be spilled for whatever storm awaits. He saw that same fear before in his mothers eyes when she would hold him as a boy. She knew then what he would see on the red fields of France, and now Alfie knows what Ollie's child and others like them will see.</p><p>He feels like the priestess Kassandra as he rambles these things to Ann, doomed to be believed as nothing more than mad. Which he is, it happened to all of the women in his family and his mother knew he took after her more than his father. In these swathes of depression and madness, Alfie passes the days on the balcony watching the sea and reading his books. That's where he is when the car pulls up. It's not the same one as before, this a deep navy blue that flashes in the afternoon light. Alfie exhales a breath of smoke and lays his pipe in the saucer of his teacup. </p><p>"Ann," he calls, sitting forward with a groan. From the passenger door a woman steps out, wrapped up in a hat and coat. She looks up at the house and Alfie would recognise those cheekbones and jet-black hair anywhere. A Shelby.</p><p>"What's the matter, Mr. Solomons?" Ann asks patiently as she comes through from the kitchen. </p><p>"Seems we've got some guests this evening," he answers and she follows his gaze over the balcony ledge. The sister-Shelby hurries around to the backseat door and opens it for another two Shelby's to get out. The second one- the youngest he recognises as Finn- has a firm arm under the first who confirms Alfie's suspicions. "They may be in need of some assistance." As if on cue the three siblings almost collapse into the gravel, Ann gasps under her breath and hurries back the way she came. Alfie takes his time to follow, gathering up his cane and watching Ann hurry out of the front door to the scene, an air of authority about her.</p><p>When he makes it to the foyer he meets the three of them struggling with the limp form of Tommy himself between them. He seems conscious but not all there, like he's wasted on that awful sweet gin of his though Alfie's never seem him truly drunk even though the man maintains a perpetual buzz. What makes Alfie pause is the stark white bandage on the side of his lolling head. </p><p>"My, my, what have we gotten ourselves into, Tommy?" Alfie finally says and all eyes turn to him. He lifts his cane at the boy who looks halfway between spitting at him and pissing himself. "You I recognise, you-" He swings the rubber tip to the woman. "-I'm not acquainted with. A Shelby, there's no doubt about that-"</p><p>"A Thorne," she interjects bravely but with the ease of someone who didn't need to gather any courage to do it. "Ada Thorne. I'm hear for my brother, Solomons, nothing-"</p><p>Tommy groans against her shoulder and whatever ounce of his own weight he'd been carrying is lost as he slumps completely. Ada curses with more worry than anger, hoisting her brother further up her side as Finn staggers.</p><p>Ann lifts Tommy's head slightly and pushes his fringe up, laying her palm on his forehead. Tommy eyelids flutter, loose lips smacking like he's thirsty. Not Gin then. "Mr. Solomons I think we need to lay this young man down somewhere, whatever he's on isn't doing much help."</p><p>"Opium, right?" Alfie asks Ada, watching her eyes widen like he shouldn't know that. Everyone knows that particular vice, well, anyone worth their salt. She sets her jaw and nods in answer. Ann looks appalled and then looks at Alfie sternly like it's his fault. "Right, right, put him in the spare room." Alfie waves his cane down the corridor and stands aside so the congregation can pass. He lumbers after them and watches as Tommy is laid onto the bed, skin almost as white as the bandage now- although the bandage is reddened clearly unchanged for a while. Ann takes off his long, black coat and Ada removes his shoes. They tuck his under the duvet and Ann throws a quilt over him too. Pilled under all the blanket he looks like a small, sickly child. Utterly vulnerable in an unnerving sort of way.</p><p>"I take it this is courtesy to Mr. Mosley," Alfie says after a minute of silently watching Ann check the man's pulse and pupils. Ada looks at him, pale and haunted as her brother but with much more fire behind her gaze. She hasn't learned to hide behind a mask of indifference like Tommy.</p><p>"No, I mean-" She turns to Tommy, touching the tips of his fingers that peek from the side of the quilt. They jerk and disappear under the covers and her hands snaps back to her side.</p><p>She keeps staring so Alfie tiredly prompts, "Something happened at the address."</p><p>"Afterwards he... he knew someone talked and you could see he was... He started talking rubbish to Arthur and then he just walked off. We couldn't find him anywhere for a day then his gardener saw him walking through the field. There was- blood all over him and he had his gun, wouldn't let go of the bloody thing-"</p><p>She stops speaking, inhaling sharply to try and calm herself. Finn's hand touches her arm gently, a stony look on his face as he finishes the story for her. "He passed out as soon as we got him to a doctor. Didn't wake up for days then suddenly he's up and, and yellin'- accussin' everyone of betraying him, that Mosley had to know somehow. He'd only talk to Ada, said to bring him here to Margate. Wrote this address-" Apparently this whole situation is Alfie's fault because the boy looks at him just as accusingly as Ann had. Alfie purses his lips and huffs through his nose. His reoccurring dream comes to him, the one he had told Tommy of. So the beast was the man after all.</p><p>"Yeah, well, enemy of me enemy is me friend, innit?"</p><p>"If I had know who we were bringing him to I wouldn't have even considered it," Ada says firmly. Christ, these women. Alfie is about to retort when Ann gasps. They all look as she peels the bandage away and the gnarled side of Tommy's head comes into the light. It runs up into his cropped hairline where a chunk is missing so the doctor's could get to it. The skin is puckered and a raw shade of pink Alfie recognises the wound all too well, having seen that very shape on his own body and the bodies of men he didn't care to remember. A gun made that scar, a fault line you can trace from beginning to end and know exactly who it came from.</p><p>"So his aim hasn't improved," Alfie mutters. Finn makes a noise like the wild, little animal he is and lunges at Alfie. Both Ada and Ann shout but Alfie knows he's hurting and can't blame him for trying. He drops his cane and catches the boy around the throat before he can tackle him- best keep this on two legs. He's got a few inches on Alfie but, well, he could snap the skinny twit like a toothpick. Finn gags and grabs at his forearm as he's hoist up by the throat. "Take a breath, boy. Take a fucking breath, right?"</p><p>"Do as he says, Finn, for fucks sake," Ada groans, arms folded over her chest in a motherly gesture of exasperation. Finn stops struggling, toes steadying on the carpet and throat convulsing under Alfie's hand.</p><p>"Now, I sincerely apologise for hurting your feelings on such a difficult day but you come into my house, right, with that attitude?" He briefly applies an ounce of pressure and Finn wheezes. "I don't think so, mate."</p><p>Ann breaks the violent haze that had settled over him. "Mr. Solomons," she says calmly from the edge of the bed and Alfie glances at her stern expression, inner child cowering. After a moment he lets go of the boy, a wave of exhaustion hitting him as he drops his arm. He leaves the cane on the floor, knowing if he bends over he won't be getting up. "I think I'd best see to this mans injuries, you should all go to living room and I'll bring some tea."</p><p>"I'll do it, miss," Finn mutters, still rubbing his throat unhappily. He's got an attitude more akin to Arthur than Tommy but it seems learned, there's an underlying gentleness Aflie can see he's taught himself to hide. Still just a child.</p><p>Ann's smiles at him sincerely, "thank you, young man, kitchen is back up the hall. Now, Miss Thorne, when did he take the opium?"</p><p>"Before we left. We couldn't tell anyone and he refuses to use the morphine-" Guilt crumbles her stoic exterior. "-I wanted him to sleep so I let him... It used to help him sleep."</p><p>"Alright," Ann says softly, a tone she's never used to Alfie much to his chagrin. "I'll take care of him."</p><p>They're moved along to the living room and Alfie beelines unsteadily for the armchair, sinking into it with a loud appreciative noise. Time was he could torture a man for three days and go straight back to work with nothing more than an hours sleep. These days he can barely teach a jumped up little shit one one lesson without needing a nap. But the sharp eyes of Ada- and the knowledge of just how many sharp things a Shelby can conceal in their clothes- stop him from closing his lids.</p><p>"Now," Alfie says, thumbing the ring on his pinkie. "Exactly why did our boy command you to come 'ere of all places?"</p><p>"How should I know," she shoots back then crosses her arms again and sighs. "He thought out of everyone you'd be the least likely to screw him over on this. Given your history I had my doubts but Tommy was sure."</p><p>"True me, love, I want that smarmy git dead as much as the next Jew. Only reason I'm not tossin' the three of you out, right-" Alfie points at the doorway. "-is cos that gypsy fuck owes me one dead fascist."</p><p>Ada narrows her eyes but her red lips curl up. "No wonder he likes you, you're as much of a bastard as he is." It surprises Alfie though he did always enjoyed their antagonistic meetings. They had a back and forth that felt rare, maybe because Tommy never dismissed his madness as stupidity as many often did. He's about to say if Tommy shoots the face off bastards he likes what does he do to bastards he doesn't like when Finn comes in holding a tray.</p><p>"Am I gonna find any silverware gone walk-about later, mate?" He asks instead, enjoying the way the boy stiffens but doesn't lash out the way he clearly wants to. Lesson learned.</p><p>"Thanks, Finn," Ada says kindly. The siblings sit across from him looking uncomfortable. Finn's eyes keep darting to and from the mangled side of Alfie's face.</p><p>Alfie waves his hand at it. "Courtesy of your big brother, mate."</p><p>The boy glares at him like a petulant child then blurts, "he should've finished the job."</p><p>"Finn!" Ada hisses, slapping his chest with the back of her hand.</p><p>"You're not wrong there," Alfie replies dryly. "You'd best be glad he is a crap shot or he wouldn't be gettin' the finest care Margate has to offer, hm?" He raises his eyebrows and after a moment Finn scoffs and looks away. He turns his gaze on Ada. "I take it that's the plan."</p><p>"He needs to get back on his feet, somewhere safe. He might be losing it but he's not wrong, someone talked and we can't leave him open to an attack." She tells him this like she's scolding him not pleading shelter for her crippled brother, Alfie feels a begrudging respect her. Besides, he'd made up his mind the minute he saw the man.</p><p>"And where do the masses believe their MP and right hand of the fascist party has gone?"</p><p>"Extended holiday abroad," she says primly, smoothing out an absent crease in her coat. "In France."</p><p>Alfie snorts, shaking his head. He looks out of the balcony for a moment, across the big blue water. She's not lying, a part of Tommy is over there just like a part of Alfie is too, pieces of themselves buried alongside their lost brothers. When he returns his gaze to Ada she's looking back uncertainly. "There's something you're not tellin' me, Ada Thorne." Her eyes widen.</p><p>"Finn... Go check if Miss Ann needs any help." The boy hesitates then gets up and leaves. Ada sighs, toying with a button on her coat. "Mr. Solomon's I'm... I think you may know better than most that Tommy isn't, he's-"</p><p>"Losing his marbles?"</p><p>"Christ, yes. He hides it well. But he trusts me, tells me things... He's haunted."</p><p>"Boys like him, they've seen too much too fast." He sits forward creakily, lacing his fingers together between his knees. He thought she might understand better than the youngsters. "It stays with 'em, you see it in their eyes."</p><p>"It isn't the war," she says, hand curling into a fist. "Our mother suffered from the same thing, she killed herself in the end. He has a son, a daughter, I won't let him make them suffer the same fate we-" Her words catch and she averts her gaze, something tender coming across it for a fleeting moment.</p><p>Alfie sits back. Our mothers children ay', Tommy, he thinks to himself. What a state indeed. "I'll harbour your brother, Miss Thorne, but there's something I need as compensation."</p><p>"What's that?"</p><p>"My dog back."</p><p>-</p><p>The problem with drugs- opium, morphine, alcohol- when too much is imbibed, things tend to get a little blurred. Tommy finds clarity in pain so these things must be used in moderation. He pours away the morphine because even a spoonful warps the world and he's left walking two inches off the ground. Pain reminds him why he's hear, how hes gotten this far, that he's a bad man and should feel these things. For Grace, for John. Maybe the pain mutes the grief too.</p><p>Alcohol is a weapon as well as a crutch. Ply a man with it, a woman even, and the words come spilling out with ease. Loosens tongues, loosens morals. A finger of whiskey for Tommy is more of a thimble so the excess he drinks isn't dependency, it's tolerance. Takes more than a glass to make his vision swim these days. Alcohol soothes. It's a balm on raw nerves when his headaches and his scars pinch; one, two, three glass take care of it. Much better than morphine.</p><p>Opium is... His... his Grace. She guides him to sleep in loving arms, hides him from the ghosts and the spades for a little while. A dangerous temptation he packed away, hidden under floorboards for the most dire of moments. For weeks it had been tempting, just to finally get some rest. That's what she keeps saying, beckoning him with. To lay down in the cold, dark coal with her and never return. Tommy does not fear death but the act of dying by his own hand is... If someone else could just do it for him before he turns his gaze on God as his next challenge. He'll put up a fight when it comes to it but, in the moment, when he knows he's not getting out of this one, he'll welcome it.</p><p>Pulling the trigger has been an accident. At least afterwards he thinks it was. She just wouldn't stop talking to him, voice absent and lonely. Mosley had won and she was talking, talking, talking. So he screamed. Pulled the trigger. Not an accident.</p><p>When his skull was crushed against brick it had been searing, liquid pain that rose until he drowned in it and everything went dark. This, the slip of a finger and soar of a bullet, was lighting cracking against the side of his head. He fell, still holding the gun, onto the sand- no the grass, wet from the sea coming in- no the fog rolling in. The shock of the pain and the hot blood pouring from his temple felt much too familiar. Grace standing over him and watching passively didn't. It made him get up on his knees and crawl away from her half-sobbing, half-choking until he could find his feet. Then he wandered, chased in all directions by Grace appearing through the fog in front of him. Sometimes John, then Aberama and his boy, Freddie and his mother. They came to him until all his tears dried up and he was numb.</p><p>Finally he'd broken through the fog and saw his older brother running and everything came crashing down.</p><p>"Mr. Shelby?"</p><p>He doesn't know that voice. Tommy tries to open his eyes but he's still caught in the fog, lost in the commons. Something heavy stops him from moving his arms.</p><p>"Mr. Shelby you're coming down from a rather large dose of opium so you may start feeling a bit of pain-" As if on cue is head throbs and he turns his face into the pillow like he can get away from it. No such luck. Finally his eyelids pry apart and he squints at the source of the unfamiliar voice, belonging to an unfamiliar face.</p><p>"Where the fuck am I?" He croaks, did Ada ignore his instructions and take him to a fucking hospital?</p><p>The stern looking woman purses her lips then another voice speak from behind her. "You're right here, mate, aren't you." Alfie. So she did it. Tommy closes his eyes from a moment, gathering his strength to look past the woman at Alfie. He sits in a rocking chair across the room, chin balanced on his knuckles, balanced on his cane.</p><p>"Where's my sister, Alfie? Where's Ada?"</p><p>"Left," Alfie answers, shrugging his shoulders around his ears. "Abandoned you to the mercy of a lawless Jew and Catholic nurse, God 'elp you."</p><p>Tommy snorts and tries to sit up, instantly hit by a wave of dizziness.</p><p>"Mr. Shelby, hold on now-" The nurse grabs the pillows from the other-side of the bed and stuffs them under his shoulders and neck to raise him a few inches. The rest of the room is dark he realises, the room lit by two lamps. There's the problem with opium, he can't remember a thing since getting in the back of Ada's car but he's lost almost a whole day. His head fucking hurts.</p><p>"You look about as good as I feel, Tommy," Alfie pipes up as the nurse offers him a cup of tea. His throat feels like sandpaper and he accepts it, drinking it down in two gulps.</p><p>"Good thing I don't feel as good as you look. I'd be fuckin' dead, eh, Alfie?"</p><p>The nurse coughs, clearly covering a laugh.</p><p>"You've gotten on Ann's good side already so I can't kick you out for that, but I'll remember it for later-" Alfie taps the side of his head. "-Steel trap up here."</p><p>"I believe you," Tommy murmurs, already feeling tired again. "Thank you, Ann," he adds quietly as she takes the cup back from him and she offers him a small, concerned smile.</p><p>He never slept well, since he was a boy, even in the last few days exhausted by pain he stayed vigilant, paranoia and rage keeping him awake or at least aware. It's incredibly stupid, he knows he'll regret it, but he feels safer here- at least, his morphine riddled brain did. They've stripped him down to his shirt and underwear- the rest of it piled at the foot of the bed- his glasses and case of cigarettes sit on the bedside table along with his lighter. His hands are clumsy as he takes them out and lights on up, but he instantly breathes a little easier after a lung-full of smoke. It eases some of the tension in his skull and he sighs shakily.</p><p>"We'll get you something for the pain," Ann says, watching him. "I'm sure Mr. Solomons has some codeine spare, you'll have to have it with food."</p><p>"Wouldn't try it, man survives on gin and tobacco alone."</p><p>Ann glares at her employer then back at Tommy. "Something light, then. Soup." Without waiting for either men's input she leaves with the tea-tray. In the quiet Tommy thinks he can almost hear the ocean.</p><p>"So am I supposed to guess?" Tommy hums around the cigarette in question and Alfie spreads his hands. "Should I use my wild and vivid imagination to conjure the tale of how Tommy Shelby OBE ended up under my roof with a chunk out of his skull?"</p><p>Tommy twitches. The scar seems to throb in time to his heart-beat, a constant rhythmic burst of pain. He looks at Alfie's scarred cheek and wonders if he feels it too behind that milky eyeball. "You hear what happened?"</p><p>"I did, yeah, I did," Alfie hums, sitting back in the chair and scratching his beard. "Exactly nothing fuckin' happened, didn't it? So what, exactly, happened to make nothing happen? You finally meet your match, Tommy?"</p><p>"I don't know," Tommy says quietly, watching the tip of his cigarette smoulder. The following silence is heavy.</p><p>"Lose one battle and he puts a gun to his head, not the Tommy Shelby I know." Alfie's voice is dangerously quiet and he's watching Tommy with those intent, relentless eyes. The satisfaction he used to get from battling that gaze is lost in just how tired he feels so he lets his head fall back against the pillow and starts at the ceiling. "So. What happened?"</p><p>"There's a Judas in our midst, Alfie-" Tommy sucks on the filter urgently, trying to replace the sick feeling in his chest with tar. "-Someone betrayed me. Arthur almost died, Aberama was killed."</p><p>"The bloke with the boxer for a son?"</p><p>Tommy ignores him, that sick feeling making it hard to breath but words pour out of him in a rush. "I can't tell anymore, I used to be able to tell them apart. Dreamin' and wakin'. Used to just be me talking, now it's all of them. She wasn't real, the gun wasn't real-"</p><p>"That your mother or your wife?" Alfie asks curiously. Tommy jerks his head toward him and instantly regrets it. He blinks the dots of pain away and stares at Alfie's blank face, wondering and then realises.</p><p>"Ada."</p><p>Alfie shrugs. "She had to tell me somethin', mate, had no idea what state you'd be waking up in, did I." A horrible combination of fear, grief and anger swarm his chest like a cloud of angry wasps. The words stick in his throat, acidic like bile. "Never met her... Your wife that is." His head's spinning from moving it too quickly and he wants to close his eyes and just sleep, tell Alfie to fuck off.</p><p>"She was never a part of... this," Tommy croaks. Whatever is left of the opium must be loosening his tongue, he has an irrational need to make Alfie understand.</p><p>"'S not the story I heard, mate."</p><p>"When we married, we agreed- I'd make us safe, then it'd be over." Tommy closes his eyes finally blocking out Alfie and to his horror a tear slips between his lashes. He wipes it away with the ball of his palm. "Don't say a fucking word against my wife, Alfie. I'll kill you and I'll do it right this time." The threat sounds weak, voice laced with barely concealed emotion and exhaustion. Fucking drugs. "The hell was in that tea?" He grumbles.</p><p>"Witch-craft. Thought you'd know the taste of it by now."</p><p>Tommy hums, watching the spots behind his eyelids. "I'm tired," he says softly. In just a few minutes he feels like Alfie has pulled the stitches from him and let him spill onto the floor with just his words. "I'm so tired."</p><p>"Yeah, mate," Aflie says, voice suddenly much closer. "You ain't yourself are you, 's no fun for neither of us. Sleep, yeah? Work to be done." Tommy can't even nod, can't quite tell if any of the last few minutes was real. He feels the cigarette being slide from between his lax lips and is almost certain the tear caught on the junction of his jaw gets brushed away but he can't be sure. That's the problem with drugs.</p><p>Faintly, he hears the clink of China and soft footsteps pausing in the hallway. "Not now, Ann, he's back off to sleep. Maybe in a few hours, yeah?" Alfie says quietly.</p><p>"That's certainly for the best, Mr. Solomons, Mr. Shelby needs rest right now-" The footsteps change directions and the voice follow them as they fade. "-In the meantime you can take your supper in the sitting room, yes?"</p><p>Alone, Tommy shivers and risks opening his eyes just a little. They're instantly draw to the corner of the room where she waits at the edge of the shadow of the rocking chair. Sapphire blue eyes bore into his and Tommy holds them until he can't heave the weight of his lids and they fall shut.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Man, this took a long while huh..... forgive me, crazy time for everyone, hope you're all okay</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Old Man and Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Without opening his eyes Tommy knows it is Alfie who enters his room instead of Ann with the usual tray of breakfast; tea, toast and codeine- two of which will inevitably be neglected, and met with silent scorn by the nurse. The uneven footsteps and absence of clinking china on an silver tray tell Tommy something is different this morning. He eyelids are heavy to open and against the morning light even softened by heavy curtains they ache, in fact his whole head aches but the pain is not paralytic like it had been when he first arrived.</p><p>He leans up and watches Alfie shoulder the door wide (it's never completely closed, though he doesn't know if it's for their sake or his). He's not clutching his cane, some days it never leaves his hand and others he walks with ease, in that familiar loping gait. He told Tommy it depends on the weather but Tommy knows it depends on the night much more. Alfie squints at him from the doorway and Tommy blinks in return.</p><p>"Second Sunday of the month's Ann's day-off, we're to fend for ourselves," Alfie finally explains with his usual flare that is much too early in the day to find amusing. "I'm not making two pots of tea, right, so you can come have some on the balcony or stew 'ere."</p><p>Tommy glares at him wishing he had a cigarette in hand to smoke pointedly but he'd run out two days ago. Reading his expression, Alfie reaches into his pocket and holds up a fresh packet. "Ann was nice enough to get you some more but, mate, this room smells like a fuckin' pub and I paid good money for those sheets your burnin' holes in."</p><p>"How'm I supposed to get from here to there, eh?" Tommy asks petulantly even as he throws the duvet back and eases his legs over the side. He's in a spare set of clothes they- specifically, Ann- gave him and they hang from his frame like washing on a line. Alfie isn't much taller than him but he's built like a brick wall so the white shirt stays rolled up his wrists and the slacks belted tightly. </p><p>"Well, since you asked so nicely," Aflie tuts, crossing the room and holding out an arm. Tommy stares at it and then at Alfie in disbelief. Offered an arm like he's some bloody ma'am.</p><p>"So Ann will find two cripples on the landing instead of one, eh?" Tommy sneers but Alfie peers back unperturbed.</p><p>"Only one cripple here, mate, you're just an invalid. Ungrateful one at that." Tommy snorts and shakes his head, there's no point in trying to preserve anymore of his dignity in this house after Ann gave him a pot to piss in on his second day here. He latches onto Alfie's elbow and stands unsteadily. His head rushes uncomfortably, spots graying his sight and he has to clutch onto Alfie with embarrassing desperation to remain upright. When his vision clears he nods and Alfie hoists an arm under his. Without a word they shuffle down the hall, Tommy's weight caught between his arm around Alfie's shoulder and his hand on the wall. </p><p>By the time they reach the sitting room the two of them are breathing loudly and Tommy's brain is beating a drum against his skull. The rush of fresh air as they step through the balcony doors is worth it though even as the bright cold light making his retinas sting. Tommy inhales the salty air, cobwebs sweeping from his head in the breeze, momentarily feeling better than he has in days.</p><p>"Fuck me, you're twice as heavy as you look, Tommy, what they feeding you lot up there?" Alfie groans as they manhandle him into a wicker chair on the balcony. "Or is this the politicians diet, hm? Explains why half that lot all look like they ate their first born son."</p><p>Tommy can't help the wheeze of laughter from escaping, loosened by the exhausting journey. He sags into the cushions, closing his eyes and taking deep refreshing breaths as he holds up his palm. "Where are my cigarettes, Alfie?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Alfie grunts and the light weight of the pack drops into Tommy's lap. Alfie keeps grumbling to himself as he sits in the other chair, groaning as his knees crack. Unwilling to open his eyes as they adjust to the daylight, Tommy blinding opens the pack and fishes a cigarette free. China clicks as he lights up and the bemusing idea of Alfie pouring them morning tea is enough motivation to part his lids. Somehow it looks disappointing ordinary instead of funny and Tommy frowns a little as Alfie sets the pot down and reaches for the sugar. Alfie doesn't look like an old man, really, just incredibly... retired. That air of threat that used to hover over him wherever he went is still there, behind his mangled eye and brutal shape, but it's wrapped up in blankets over his knees, the bent spines of well-leafed books of fables, and the slump only a man ailed by chronic pain possesses. </p><p>Tommy will never pity Alfie, it wouldn't be physically possible to, but he feels... something. Camaraderie? Sympathy? The idea of either one unnerve him so Tommy looks away, turning his attention to the glittering sea.</p><p>"So how're we feelin' today, Tom?" Alfie asks as he daintily sips his tea.</p><p>Tommy sighs. "Like someone shot me in the head, Alfie."</p><p>"Someone, right..." Alfie slurps noisily, deliberately, like it's his mission to annoy Tommy into talking. He wouldn't put it past him- once the opium had faded and Tommy had control of his tongue again they'd instantly fallen into a routine of quiet but sharp banter that made Ann look like she was sucking lemons. Alfie would leave him alone for long stretches then appear at the most unwelcome time with a book under his arm and take his seat in the rocking chair, to read or talk at Tommy. All this time with just himself and a nurse for company has sped up the lose of whatever sanity Alfie had left. Margate is as good as anywhere to lose your mind, he supposes, probably nicer.</p><p>At first the drugs had him slipping in and out, seeing his people and hearing their voices, always soft and tempting. He knows Alfie and Ann had seen him with them, he never spoke to them but he cowered on the best nights and pleaded on the worst. Soon, though, Ann had prescribed him with weaker dose of pain medicine to try and combat whatever hallucinations she thought he was having. They aren't as present anymore, but still the figures remain, he lets her believe they're gone.</p><p> Alfie and Ann watch him- like they do- as if waiting for Tommy to do something. He doesn't know how to tell them there is no plan, hasn't been one since he walked away into the fog. Maybe the impact scrambled his brain, every time he tries to think beyond one foot in front of the other, one minute before the next, a sickness rises in his chest and he starts running out of air. So he's broken, Mosley broke him and this is the place where broken things go to rest, right? To die in peace.</p><p>Tommy sighs a great cloud of smoke and watches it drift over the ledge and into the wind. Behind them the radio crackles as the forecast is read by a woman, volume low but enough to reach their ears. Alfie hums in agreement with her predictions, fingers tapping an idle pattern on the delicate porcelain as he looks at the ocean too.</p><p>"Lovely weather today, lovely."</p><p>Tommy hums, he can't disagree, even this early the chill is thawing into an autumnal warmth. He's never spent so much time on the coast, his life was on the fresh water not here where the salt seems to cling to his skin. He wonders what the sea will look like in winter, if it has the same black depths the canals had, the same stillness like nature is holding its breath until Spring comes.</p><p>"How about taking a walk today, Tommy? Getting some fresh air, yeah?"</p><p>"Plenty of air out here," Tommy drawls, waving a hand at the blatant fact they are outside. Alfie nods, lip protruding as he muses over Tommy's words.</p><p>"Right, right... This though," Alfie waves his hand in imitation. "Is merely a glimpse of the great outdoors, right, might seem like a far-fetched concept to hermits such as yourself, Thomas, but I guarantee a canal-rat like you might appreciate the sheer volume of water out there. Or are gypsy's afraid of the sea?" Tommy gives him a bland look and for some reason that pleases Alfie.</p><p>"I can't walk."</p><p>"Really?" Alfie blinks, looks over his shoulder and back. "How'd you get here then?"</p><p>"Fuckin' hell- I barely got here. You're no help."</p><p>"Look, isn't much further to the water, mate." Alfie reaches down the side of his chair and picks up his cane, switching hands and holding it out to Tommy.</p><p>Tommy glares at the polished strip of wood. He has never liked being weak, wouldn't show it if he was and hide himself away until he couldn't. Especially before his enemies. They had never really been enemies, he and Aflie; strangers, business partners, two old friends and opposite ends of a gun. Enemies barely covered the extent of their history. Tommy grasps the cane, hand covering half of Alfie's and he takes it from him.</p><p>Alfie fetches their coats while Tommy takes his time getting to the front door, it's easier with the cane to lean on instead of Alfie's ridiculous shoulders. The quiet ache in his head hasn't gotten any louder by the time he reaches the foyer, but he still feels like he's walked five times further. Alfie's utterly unreadable face is both frustrating and relieving, better than a doctor's clinical stare or his families pity. His coat and hat are on but he's not wearing any shoes, Tommy stares at his bare feet as he helps him into his overcoat.</p><p>"It's a beach, Tommy, no need for propriety on the shore, right. Also, sand in your socks an' shoes will incur the wrath of Ann." He opens the door and waves for Tommy to go through which he does with a sideways look at the man. The path curves around the side of the house turning to cobbles and then to dun-y sand which prickle his feet as they hobble through it too the flat sand. The chill nips at his toes but the sand is almost warm, Tommy can't remember the last time he was outside with no shoes on it feels... freeing. Alfie must be able to tell because there's a smug smile behind his eye.</p><p>They shuffle down the soft sand together, from a distance they must look an odd pair all wrapped up in coats with their feet bare. Walking is somehow easier in the open, even though the wind occasionally chases his coattails and the sand is uneven underfoot. Tommy breathes deeply, maybe it is the air. Alfie shifts close by his side and, whether deliberate or not, provides a breaker for the wind.</p><p>There's a flush of exertion on both their faces when they makes it to the damp, foamy sand where the sea laps at the beach. They stand at the waters edge, Tommy squints in the sunlight wondering where along the coast they are facing. Dunkirk mustn't be far. He drops his filter in the sand and lights a new cigarette with difficult against the breeze. Alfie's hands come up, covering Tommy's and the flame finally catches.</p><p>"Should ring 'round the papers," Alfie says. "When's the last time you saw a politician with bare feet? Or a Fascist for that matter."</p><p>"What do you have against my being a member of parliament, Alfie?" Tommy asks with mild amusement, taking the cigarette from between his lips.</p><p>"Absolutely nothin' against seeing a man rise above his station. Inspirational, innit," Alfie replies airily. "Just against seeing him sell his people down the river so he can get a hand, right, a hand on the next rung of the ladder just to see who'll stop on his fingers."</p><p>Whatever tolerance Tommy had felt for Alfie's jabs swiftly disappears and he stares, immobilised briefly by the flurry of emotion. Guilt, anger, pain, betrayal, grief, so much grief, and tired so tired. It isn't a conscious move, Tommy barely registers stepping in front of Alfie until a wave submerges his toes in the wet sand. Alfie peers at him curiously, the gnarled side of his face somehow looks worse in the daylight. Tommy's legs wobble, suddenly unbalanced by the receding water and he grabs the lapel of Alfie's coat, shoves him a little for good measure even though he doesn't budge.</p><p>"Easy now-"</p><p>"Shut up," Tommy hisses, glaring wide-eyed at him. "I'm not some traitor, I support the unions, everything I did was to stop Mos-" The name sticks in his throat, he doesn't know why he can't say it and it frustrates him enough make him tremble. So tired but so, so angry.</p><p>"I know exactly what you do with those unions, Tommy, exactly how you use those factories, them car-parts. Don't get fuckin' high and mighty with me, mate," Alfie says with furious calm, ducking his head so they're nose to nose as he pokes Tommy's chest. "You're a businessman, a fuckin' gangster, not a politician- feathers are all wrong, but you do a nice job faking it I'll give you that, right. Mosley saw right through it too though, didn't he? Both of you circled each other like feral fucking dogs until he bit and now you're off lickin' your wounds."</p><p>"I'm- I don't-"  Tommy suddenly realises he can't breathe and his skin feels tight, stretched thin like canvas. Hands brace his arms and steady him where he didn't realise he was listing.</p><p>"Point is, Tommy, think you need to remember why you're doin' this in the first place 'cause you're not seein' the forest through the trees. When you remember what this is all for then you'll beat him, and I'll get my money's worth."</p><p>Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, taking deep breaths of bitter air. The few inches between their chests are warm and they draw him in until his forehead meets the back of his own hand. "If I stop they'll come back," he whispers in a rush.</p><p>"Who?" Alfie asks quietly. Every face flashes through his mind, every memory and sharp edge of a spade, dirt pouring over their heads, the ones who made it out and the ones who didn't. His toes shifting on the edge of a bridge looking down, wanting down to met the coal clutched angel beneath.</p><p>"All of them."</p><p>Alfie doesn't say anything but his hands remain steady on Tommy, keeping him from falling down. Grace had stopped it before, the shovels scrape silenced by her heartbeat. Opium before her, the work after, always work to do. Pol was right, every time he's stopped he's sank and now he can't make himself start again but Alfie is holding above the surface right now. When his lungs stop constricting he opens his eyes and stares at their half submerged feet, shame burns in his throat. He tries to push past Alfie and escape but Alfie blocks him, scooping an arm around his ribs and turning with him.</p><p>"Slow down, mate," Alfie commands quietly. "You ain't goin' nowhere fast." Tommy sags in defeat and let's Alfie tug the cane from his hand and use it himself as he braces Tommy's weight. The walk back is a slog but Tommy looks no higher than the sand where his next step will fall. The only consolation is he's too numb to feel the pain in his skull, although he can feel it throb in time to his heartbeat that refuses to slow, won't ever stop.</p><p>-</p><p>Nice walk on the beach, Ann said, get some air and a little sunlight it'll do you both good. Fuck, she's going to be pissed Alfie thinks as he gets a half-aware Tommy through the door. His knees and hips are grinding unhappily with every step, he has to grit his teeth to get Tommy into his room without swearing the roof down.</p><p>When they reach the bed their combined strength fails and Tommy slumps onto it. He's pale and listless as Alfie drags the coat off him, for the first time Alfie feels a true sense of guilt for inducing this state in him. He holds himself up at least, blinking sleepily and breathing like he's been in a fight.</p><p>"If I make tea you gonna drink it?" Alfie asks. Tommy swallows noisly, gazing at the pillows.</p><p>"I'm tired, Alfie."</p><p>"Yeah I know, mate, but your shaking an' me mum always said tea fixes everything." Someones mum probably said that, anyway. He watches Tommy close his eyes and nod reluctantly. "Right, change your trousers while I put the kettle on, they're wet."</p><p>In the kitchen Alfie leans against the counter and gathers himself as the kettle heats on the stove. His back is burning and his left leg too from hip to heel but it's like the crackle on the radio, just another little thing he barely notices. The thing that makes it more pronounce is the pounding in his head, the staccato of Tommy's footsteps on the sand. There's nothing to feel guilty about, nothing, he doesn't feel guilt, hasn't for years.</p><p>He reaches for the teacups as the kettle begins to whistle. The first cup catches on his finger and slips. It doesn't smash but tinkles apart as it breaks on the stone floor. Alfie sighs and swears to himself, ignoring the mess around his bare feet as he reaches for another and fixes the tea for one. The sound of china crunching follows him across the room but he doesn't feel anything.</p><p>Tommy is laying down, curled up with his eyelids half closed. His arm and bare legs stick out over the edge of the bed, socked feet hanging above the crumpled remains of his trousers and coat like he just toppled sideways. Vulnerability was always a weapon; find their kids, their mistresses, the naughty gaps in their bank records and the dodgy deals hidden behind closed doors. He met Tommy as his vulnerability was smeared over his bloody lip and in those sorrowful eyes but, for the first time, his vulnerability hadn't also been a weakness and Alfie found that fascinating.</p><p>Now here he lies, half away with the fairies and crawling at the feet of defeat, and Alfie feels... he feels...</p><p>"Up you get," he murmurs, voice uncomfortably strained. He slides his hand under Tommy's head and he sits up without much resistance but that lost expression doesn't leave even as Alfie presses the cup into his hand and guides it to his lips. His eyelashes flutter as he drinks it all in one go.</p><p>"That's good, a'right, you can sleep now." With Alfie there his descent to the bed is gentler and when his head meets his pillow his eyes are already closed again. Through the uncomfortable pain in his back Alfie tucks Tommy into the bed, lifting his legs in and pulling the covers up. He has to catch himself on the bedpost as he stands up straight, breathing through the twinge before moving toward the sitting room.</p><p>There's something incongruous about shuffling by the cool blue view outside, the serene early afternoon unreachable in the tomb of the house where a man crumbles under the weight of his darkness in the next room. Alfie gazes at it, resentment etched in the furrow of his brow, then he sees Tommy's eyes in the colour and the sight becomes too much. He hobbles away and goes to his room, pulling the curtains closed before sinking into his own familiar bed. Before laying down he looks at the bottom of his foot, sand caught still between his toes and a piece of china embedded in his arch. It stings to pull out but it's nothing, he holds it up the reddened white shard the dim light then sets it on the table next to a shell and his rings.</p><p>Sometime later, overly warm and chasing a dream, Aflie wakes to a cool hand on his forehead. He's sluggish but he manages to swiftly capture the wrist before they can do any damage-</p><p>"Mr. Solomons," Ann's voice calls calmly. Her face swims in the hazy candle light, softened in the yellow glow and Alfie stays lost in the past for a moment before blinking hard. The cruel ache in his bones brings him fully back into the present, Alfie stifles a groan as he sits up against the cushions.</p><p>"Ann, what's the-"</p><p>"It's six p.m. I came by to check on the two of you before my dinner date and found you both in bed."</p><p>"Tommy's 'sleep?" Alfie murmurs, he realises he's still holding Ann's wrist and let's go so she can reach for the eggcup on the bedside. There's the candle illuminating them, a tall one held in a silver chamberstick, he stares at the light.</p><p>"No. Smoking in bed, again," Ann tuts picking out a codeine pill from the eggcup. "He mentioned you went to the beach, I thought you might need this."</p><p>"He talked?" Alfie asks before he can stop himself, knowing Ann will read something in that. She does, pausing as she hands him a glass of water for the pill. Alfie sighs and takes both proffered, gratefully chugging down most of the glass after the pill. "Wasn't a good walk, Ann."</p><p>"No," Ann hums, setting the water aside and gazing at the bedside table, her finger briefly touches the bloody little piece of china before she folds her hands into her lap and sighs. In another life she could've been an excellent schoolmarm. "He looked a tad... shaken."</p><p>"I pushed him... Didn't take it well."</p><p>"Well, where exactly were you pushing him, Mr. Solomons? He's already on the edge of the bloody cliff," Ann replies sharply then takes a calming breath. "The two of you are... Very alike. Wounded animals, you need to heal but you keep dragging yourselves- there's a thorn in his paw, Mr. Solomons, lets not add insult to injure."</p><p>"Right," Alfie mumbles, chastised.</p><p>"I suppose you'll be saying no to food too?" Alfie hums and Ann sighs again. "There's soup if either of you do find your appetites. Tomorrow we'll heat some water for a bath for you."</p><p>"You're a wise woman, Ann, reminds me of my mother," Alfie says tiredly, forcing a smile. "... Thank you, Ann. Go, enjoy your date, yeah?"</p><p>"Oh, I will. And the extra time will be reflected in my next invoice," Ann replies primly and Alfie snorts. "Get some rest, I know you haven't been sleeping much. I'll see you both tomorrow bright and early." She stands to leave and Alfie notices the specter lurking in the half-open doorway. The haze of just waking up and oncoming fog of codeine make it a little hard to focus on Tommy as he steps further into the room to let Ann by. She touches his arm gently as she passes and Tommy nods, grim as ever, clutching his cigarette packed against his thigh. He's put on a new pair of trousers but his white shirt is the same, crumpled by sleep and hanging un-tucked.</p><p>They're alone, Alfie realises when a door closing echoes from within the house, and Alfie feels a prickling under his skin. It's the reverse of their usual positions; Alfie laid up in bed and Tommy... what is he doing here? Alfie tended to visit when he got bored or felt himself descending into a maudlin state where even Tommy's barely-present company was preferable.</p><p>"Alright, Tommy?" He says, waving a hand weakly. Tommy watches him blandly from the doorway before moving like molasses to the foot of the bed and leaning lightly against the post. He looks Alfie over in that way so many men have, a morbid sort of curiosity about what could possible be wrong with him- his complexion, his hunched posture. "All sorts wrong here, mate, not just the mind that's gone. Sciatica, been a bother since before the war, got a wonky spine too apparently, didn't know about that until after the cancer. Oh, and there's the cancer."</p><p>Tommy lights a cigarette, a considering furrow in his brow. That prickle is becoming an itch, irritable and hard to ignore, Alfie wishes he had something to occupy his hands with. He suppresses the need to fidget, lacing his fingers together on his chest, and waits for Tommy to gather his thoughts. "Sounds like someone has wanted you dead for a long time, Alfie."</p><p>Someone, yeah. That all seeing an' knowing, omnipotent bein', hm? Or is that just you?" Alfie shrugs. "I don't see much these days, and the only thing I know is no one's succeeded yet, have they. Might as well keep goin' until Cancer or a better man 'han you finish the job, yeah."</p><p>"We used to tell ourselves we were already dead," Tommy replies quietly, and the whole room seems to hold it's breath, waiting for him to continue. "Down in the tunnels, we'd say 'you're already dead so keep digging'... When the walls caved in, I knew no one was coming but I- You still dug, but you were digging to live now. In the dark, breathing dirt- Then they found me and-" Tommy takes a steady drag but his hands are shaking. "I didn't leave the tunnels or maybe they didn't leave me. I told you once I was digging, I just never stopped."</p><p>'If I stop' Tommy had said 'they'll come back'. Alfie watches the smoke swirl and flow over the crest of Tommy's cheekbone, just another boy changed by the war. Did it make him into this ambitious, thirsty man in front of Alfie or had he always been like this? Scrabbling to rise above his station, rise above the dirt and breath the clean air. Such a lovely complex creature, death nips at the heels of such fragile things, takes them before their time, Alfie has always been drawn to them.</p><p>"Are you digging something up or burying it?"</p><p>"There's nothing to bury."</p><p>"You've almost got as many bodies buried as me, mate, real or imagined."</p><p>"They're not buried, Alfie."</p><p>Alfie sighs through his nose and notices the codeine is finally kicking in, his thoughts turning soupy. "Think 't's why you couldn't kill me, yeah? Aiming for somethin' else."</p><p>"You shot me first, Alfie." It's dark suddenly and Alfie realises he's closed his eyes. He hears Tommy move, the muffled shush of socked feet on carpet. The bed dips and he blinks blearily in surprise, turning his head to watch Tommy curl up stiffly on the other side of the bed, back to Alfie. "Room's spinnin'," Tommy mutters, the strain breaking through in his voice- Alfie's not the only one still exhausted from this morning.</p><p>"S'all right. Just gotta figure out a new way to walk, right," Alfie slurs, not entirely sure of what he's saying (but that's not unusual).</p><p>It's quiet for a while, the smell of tobacco slowly filling the room that Alfie finds less intrusive than he expected, just as Tommy's presence nearby doesn't stop him nodding off. As he starts to fall asleep again, Alfie hears Tommy whisper, sounding just as drowsy as him. "We don't bury our dead, we burn 'em."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>who is the old man and who is death?</p><p>the road to recovery is long and arduous, the reappearance of a certain dog will surely help?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Rivers and the Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry this too so long again.... writers block has been terrible but art block (I'm @ petrichorus.tumblr.com) hasnt so? double edged sword! Hope you enjoyed...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alfie is dreaming again. Generally, nights are plagued by a variety of gore real or imagined but this night Alfie stands on the bank of an idyllic lake, frozen over and sparkling like it's crusted with diamonds. His boots are sunk to the ankle in snow, the earth hard as stone under them. Surrounding the lake are trees draped in white, the green of the pines sharper against the grey timeless sky.</p><p>It's pleasant, Alfie surveys the scenery, unlike anywhere he's been before although- contrary to his worldly demeanour- he hasn't been many places. Born on a boat before he could remember and raised in the dirty and shit of Camden town, he hopped right from there to France and back again. Travelling has never appealed to him, he gets carsick and seasick and any-other-transport sick, his adventures remained of the literary variety. Truth be told, more than half the well-traveled people he's met were hardly smarter or better off by seeing the great wide world in person that he is reading about it.</p><p>This place seems like something he must have conjured from a book he has read. Distantly he hooves beat, muffled by snow but heavy and cantering. Another mode of transportation he's high suspicious of, though that likely stems from seeing a neighbourhood boy get kicked in the head by a great big Shire. Across the lake a large chestnut horse breaks through the treeline at a gallop that slows as it reaches the bank. </p><p>Its head bows and Alfie sees upon its back is a boy, pale as the snow around them with jet black hair cropped short. He's saying something to the horse, gesturing across the lake toward Alfie with a frantic wave of his hand. The horse skitters then steps out onto the ice. Even knowing it's a dream, Alfie heart jolts in fear for the boy and amazement at the stupidity of a kid that size on a horse that big trying to cross a frozen lake.</p><p>Inevitably, they two make it a dozen or so yards before the ice cracks and buckles. The horses legs drop with three great splashes but only two come from it's front legs breaking through the surface. The third comes from the boy who topples from the rearing beast into the water below. Alfie's feet are frozen to the ground, if they weren't he might not have moved to help anyway, foolish boy brought it on himself. With an almost funny inelegant struggle the horse gets back onto the ice and dashes for the bank, turning in a circle and whinnying. </p><p>In the broken patch where the black water churns the boy resurfaces with a splutter, arms flaying for the edges of the ice. He's pale fingers look blue against the ice as he grabs a hold but slips. Desperate calls echo through the silent, still surroundings. So he's here to watch a boy drown, Alfie thinks curiously. Most dreams don't involve kids nor any deaths that aren't directly connected to Alfie's shriveled heart or his blood soaked hands. This is interesting.</p><p>From behind him the treeline rustles and he flinches as another horse emerges onto the scene. It trots up beside Alfie, its head level with his and half the size of the chestnut stallion still braying in the distance. Her mane is long and woven through with untidy plaits, bits of foliage caught in them like its been running through these woods for a while. Alfie watches it, glancing at the feebly calling boy. It bows its head with a snort and steps off the bank. The mare's hooves clop gently across the lake and the ice remains unbroken thanks to her smaller stature. </p><p>The horse makes it to the boy and turns, long matted tail flicking and captured in the boys hands. Remarkably it works: he's dragged from the water, across the ice and up the bank by the horse. She noses at the boy's soaked head, he's shivering so hard Alfie can see it from here but he laughs shakily and reaches up to pet the beasts neck. Relief soothes Alfie's rapid heartbeat and he sighs to himself.</p><p>Slowly the kid gets up onto the black horses back, much more appropriately sized for him. He half collapses against its back, arms around its neck in a hug. After a moment he straightens and takes two locks of her mane like reins. Then suddenly the boy looks over and Alfie's stomach flips as two crystal blue eyes meet his. Even at such a young again there's a depth to them, a hardness too of a boy growing up too fast. Bemused by the novelty of the dream, Alfie raises his hand in a gesture of greeting. The boy watches him then returns it, hand waving side to side once before taking ahold of the horse again and kicking his heels against her flank.</p><p>The three characters turn and walk away into the trees, swallowed up by the branches that seem to curl up behind them and block Alfie's view. Once again he's alone in the quiet woodland now accompanied by the soft lap of waves from the lakes broken surface. He tips his head toward the grey sky and closes his eyes, inhaling the fresh air deeply.</p><p>When he opens them again its dark. The bedroom is frigid cold and Alfie's toes are cramping where they've been uncovered by the blanket. Said blanket has been dragged half off of him by the curled up body in bed beside him. Tommy. He's still here. For a moment Alfie thinks this is a dream too but reality asserts itself in a muscle deep pain that sears very suddenly down the backs of Alfie's thighs.</p><p>"Right. Fuck," he grits, clutching his leg with one hand the sheet with the other. He takes shuddering, slow breaths that do nothing to diminish the pain just guides him through it. At his side Tommy sleeps on. Alfie is both relieved and annoyed by it, he turns his head on the pillow and watches his shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath. There's something smaller about Tommy when he's in bed, Alfie's watched him heal from that pale thing to something slightly more human but he still remains almost childlike when he's buried under blankets. Tommy hides it under a big coat and big strides, a personality that sucks all the air out of a room. That's all be stripped away and he sleeps like any other ordinary man.</p><p>Alfie realises he's breathing along with Tommy and the pain has quietened to something more manageable that lets him uncoil. A small shaft of sunlight paints a strip across the bedside, bright and uncompromising like the sunlight in the afternoon not morning. He's pondering what the time must be when the door inches open and Ann's head peers through the gap. She smiles blandly at Alfie then her eyes find the lump beside him and they widen, darting between bedfellows. Alfie waves a hand at the cane leaning against the bureau and she shakes herself from her shock to hurry and retrieve it.</p><p>Quietly she helps Alfie stand, keeping him upright as fire shoots up his back and down his legs. He wheezes through his nose, clutching the cane and Ann's arm much too hard but she doesn't make a sound. Once the stomach turning pain has ebbed again they shuffle out of the room and Marie gently shuts the door behind them.</p><p>"There's a hot bath waiting," she whispers as she returns to him and guides them down the corridor. Alfie grunts in reply, too overcome by his grinding bones and protesting muscles (the none-verbal state is nothing new to Ann, she just nods unfazed). They continue to shriek at him as they enter the bathroom and Ann busies herself with gathering towels while Alfie stripes methodically. Sinking into the water is a sudden relief to his body, it almost brings tears to Alfie's eyes and he slumps against the copper rim with a groan.</p><p>One of the many odd bits and pieces of furniture he brought with him from London is the copper tub, the perfect size for a man as big as he to sink beneath the surface from almost knee to nose. They'd had a plumber in for a week setting the whole system up, a brand new water heater too. It is his biggest indulgence, long hot baths where he can soak until his skin is tender and shriveled but his muscles are loosened. It's necessary, too, for pain management- Ann decided early on he couldn't be dependent on medication so they had sort out other avenues: massages, exercise, baths. Sometimes they help, sometimes they don't. Most of the time, Alfie just appreciates the water taking his weight and relieving the pressure on his limbs for a while.</p><p>His head already feels thick- a pleasant sensation that stifles some of the more noisy parts of his mind- surrounded by the steam. It fogs up the mirror and window which is open a crack, condensing the air into droplets that run trails down them. Ann lays out a towel over the sink. He leans back against the rim of the tub and closes his eyes, listening to her putter about gathering his discarded clothes.</p><p>"Will you be having breakfast on the balcony?" Alfie hums sleepily, occupied by his dream as it plays back to him behind his eyelids like a cinema projector. Dreams like that should have a meaning or act as a sign for something that Alfie just needs to interpret to understand. There's a book somewhere around on the deciphering of dreams, from where he doesn't know but many of the books he owns appear to him as if by magic (though really just by his failing memory). Water drips and echoes on the tiles and Alfie realises Ann's puttering has come to a halt. "...Shall I ask, Mr. Solomons?"</p><p>"Scrambled egg'll be fine," Aflie mumbles.</p><p>"I'm... I am paid to care for you... But I am also paid not to ask question, I know this."</p><p>"Right." Alfie sighs and the water ripples around his knees. "But I daresay you've got a few, yeah?"</p><p>"Mr. Solomons-"</p><p>"Who'd you go to dinner with last night, Ann?"</p><p>"Beg'pardon?"</p><p>"You went out- dinner and a show and a bit of company as any nice lady should have at the weekend." Alfie opens his eyes and peers at Ann who stands next to the sink, arms folded around her middle as if the room isn't overly warm. "You sleep with 'em?" The pink flush on her face turns red but she betrays nothing in her stony expression (more the look of someone with lemon rind stuck in their teeth). "We sleep next to who we sleep next to, Marie. We sleep beside our mothers, sisters and brothers, our children. Sometimes it's as uncomplicated as that. Sometimes it's so complicated it's best not spoken of, right?"</p><p>For a moment they stare at each other, the air still between them. Then Ann turns and quietly opens the cabinet beneath the sink, replacing the oils and essences she used in the bath inside it. Alfie watches her, wondering if he had assumed correctly about exactly what kind of company she kept. It may be an ironic bias but Alfie tends to trust those who he'd call his kind of people (whether they be sons of Abraham or Gentile Sodomites) more than others.</p><p>"I'll make some tea for Mr. Shelby," Ann says quietly from the doorway. "Ring the bell when you're all done."</p><p>Alfie flutters his fingers vaguely in her direction. "Thank you, Ann."</p><p>As a boy he had learned how to spot the trait in other men, then in women when he learned that even they did such things together. Throughout the years the skill had been honed into a fine art, it didn't take much more than a few cursory looks to confirm his suspicions.</p><p>In France he'd seen boys and men do the things he'd done in the darker corners of London right there in the mud and shelter of each others bodies. He hadn't understood it, being there seemed to cauterise any urge for that intimacy and he hadn't been very promiscuous to begin with. (When he was young he was tall but thinner and the kind of people who were drawn to that weren't the kind he liked, then he got big and big mostly scared all of them off).</p><p>When he got back his eyes had been on Camden the moment his feet touched English soil and it's been nonstop ever since. Whatever is left of his libido is as shriveled up as the muscles in his thighs and he hasn't seen it since. Well, that isn't quiet true. There's a fire to some boys that reignites the coals where Alfie's heart should be, makes reach out and grab at the flames until he's scorched to the bone. It's rare and worth the scars every time, the memories like the pleasant after taste of good whiskey.</p><p>Of course the latest has to have manifested itself in a blue-eyed Gypsy nutcase who burns hotter than an oil fire, just as hard to put out too. Horse hair, tobacco, tailored suits, hidden razors, hidden grenades, bloody noses, dirt caked nails. One conversation- one negotiation and Alfie wanted to throttle Tommy Shelby on his bake house floor.</p><p>Alfie hums to himself and runs a wet hand through his beard, picturing that dead-eyed look on Tommy's face as the blood trickled from his nose. It had defined the rest of their relationship; an unrelenting push and pull of hungry animals who had only refrained from tearing each others throats out because of the other wolves at the door. Truthfully, Alfie had been prepared for many more years in the dim underground of Camden. Then the confluence of cancer, wops, and the obvious decline in demand for his bread made it clear that whatever powers that be had made the decision for him.</p><p>Some days Alfie sits and contemplate the oddity of the ever present shadow inside his chest that crept in and curled up like a stray cat. Happy to hang about and wait for Alfie to die and eat his corpse. If he concentrates he imagines he can feel it spreading, reaching out toward his limps and mind. One day it will consume, all the doctors have said so. Should've popped off months ago, he's a dead man walking. Yet another sign he's more than merely moral. Works not done yet.</p><p>He comes back from his inner tangent at the sound of footstep, slow and steady unlike Ann's speedy shuffle. To Alfie's mild surprise the door opens and Tommy appears in the gap, rumpled by sleep and in yesterday's closes. Sand still clings to the hem of his trousers that are wrinkled beyond repair but the salt water they'd paddled in. His pale toes are almost as white as the floor tiles.</p><p>"Some people, right... Might consider it rude to walk in on a man during his morning ablutions."</p><p>"Where might they be, then?" Tommy asks in his usual cool tone, a relief to hear after yesterdays outbursts. He steps into the room and the door falls closed behind him. Alfie watches him cross over to the sink and start washing his hands before he answers.</p><p>"Nowhere in this house, I can tell you that. Our Ann might object however."</p><p>"There's plenty else she objects to," Tommy replies, facing Alfie and resting against the counter as he dries his hands on a fluffy blue towel. "Smokin' indoors, meals left untouched, your books layin' around the house. Doesn't seem to stop you."</p><p>"Well, I am a man of infamous impropriety," Alfie sniffs loftily. "It's expected." </p><p>An almost-smile ghosts Tommy's lips, he tucks his hands in his pockets and Alfie has come to know it as a tell for when Tommy is hiding his reaction from Alfie. Alfie tips his head back against the bath and slings both elbows over the rim, regarding Tommy plainly who doesn't bat an eyelid at the scrutiny.</p><p>"What brings you to my bathroom this fine morning, Tommy?"</p><p>Tommy's eyes wander around the room for a moment before he quietly replies. "I didn't dream last night."</p><p>"Unusual for you."</p><p>"Opium-" Tommy draws a single cigarette and lighter from his pocket. "-was the only way I could sleep without them." Smoke billows from his lips but Tommy sighs like he's just take his first breath of fresh air today.</p><p>"Nobodies compared me to be a drug before, I'll take it as the compliment I'm sure it was intended to be," Alfie replies magnanimously.</p><p>"Alfie."</p><p>"My mother had dreams similar to you, Tommy," Alfie says quietly, closing his eyes. "Not always dreams, were they. Sometimes they'd be standing right next to her in the kitchen and she didn't know they weren't..." Real, Alfie would have said but his thoughts slip down a slope into the dark pits of memory. Her grey dress and dirty blonde hair, a messy wave down her back. The apple on the cutting board in front of her, half of it in slices for Alfie turning brown as she loses herself in the visions. Alfie shifts uncomfortably at the memory, drawing his knees up. "Point is, Tommy, you're ain't a rabbit, yeah? Don't get lost in the burrow as tempting as that fluffy white tail seems."</p><p>"Your mother get lost, Alfie?" Tommy asks in that soft way of his that cuts like a knife.</p><p>"Chased. Would be the word for it... All this talk of rabbits has me hungry." Silence follows and Alfie opens his eyes to Tommy peering into the murky bath water. He lifts his gaze and meets Alfie's looking unbothered at being caught looking, Alfie might have smiled if he didn't feel so... Those blue eyes, shards of broken ice in snow. "Why do I always dream of you an' horses, Tommy?"</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"Ye-ah... A frozen lake-" Alfie sweeps his hand like he can see it laid out in front of him, Tommy's eyes stay firmly on his. "-A lovely red 'orse and a boy on his back. A little black 'orse, saves him from the ice. I wonder if it's the same-" Tommy's clenched hand slips back into his pocket, cutting of Alfie's question as if he'd squeezed his throat. "Strange dreams. Strange dreams."</p><p>Tommy replies sharply. "Like mother like son."</p><p>That pierces Alfie's leather skin just slightly and he twitches which catches Tommy's eye like a bird spotting prey. Another silence ensues as they look at each other again, Alfie has to wonder what is boiling beneath that facade.</p><p>"Ann's making eggs, Alfie," Tommy suddenly says, straightening up and going to the door. One thing Alfie hates is not getting the last word in- it caused many a scrap as a boy and many latrine duties later on but it gave him a quick, sharp way with words. Of course in the moment, none come to him so instead he stands with a great splash of water that makes Tommy jerk his head around. Tommy eyes widen, the tiniest reaction to Alfie stood buck naked and dripping wet but it's satisfying. Without a word Tommy drags his gaze away and leaves, smoke trailing behind him.</p><p>Alfie sits back in the water, instantly regretting moving so fast but it was worth it. He grips his knee and hacks a wet cough. When it doubt, outrage the opposition. He smiles to himself, ignoring where he's half hard against his thigh.</p><p>-</p><p>Ann is talking. Most days she adheres to the silent rule of quiet in this house, no need for chatter beyond Alfie's rambles when they occur. On rarer occasions Ann will also ramble, in a much less annoying and philosophical manner. Tommy has found it tends to happen when the emotions in the house are particularly intense; after Alfie's doctor appointments or a night when Tommy's dreams have woken the household. Today she sense something and it means she talks.</p><p>Tommy sits at the kitchen table with two tea cups in front of him, one with tea in it and one for ash. If he pushes the window open wide Ann lets him smoke in here since there's no carpets around to stink up. Today she is making an exception by letting him smoke while she has food out but something about Tommy's demeanour told her he didn't want to be in the sitting room when Alfie comes in. He wonders if she saw him asleep in his bed...</p><p>He taps his cigarette on the rim of the cup and tunes in to what she's saying, explaining something about the Buddleia in the back garden. Tommy hasn't traversed beyond the front doorstep except for the terrible beach walk. He looks out of the window at said garden, small and fenced in by square Laurels. There's a bench that takes up most of the tiny patio and the rest of the ground is a bed of flowers.</p><p>"It's the part of the house I have free rein over," she had explained one day with a secretive smile. "So I... do what I like."</p><p>It's a lovely jungle of colour, Tommy's never know much about gardens he lived on the water and through the woods into the black streets of Birmingham. Gardens like this appeared in children's books Charlie read. The manor house had- has just a lawn with manicured hedges, there's a bed in front of the house but feels like fancy icing on an already sickly cake. This looks like Ann's love of flowers set free and it's... lovely.</p><p>"Mr Shelby?"</p><p>Tommy looks over at her expectant face. "Sorry, Ann?"</p><p>"Are you taking your breakfast on the balcony this morning?" She asks in a neutral tone.</p><p>"I'll not be eating this morning, thank you."</p><p>"Another cup of tea, then." It isn't a question so Tommy nods once, returning his gaze to the garden. There had been rain some time last night, a whisper of a storm that quietly patterned against Alfie's window muffled by the drawn curtains. He'd thought it had been part of a lucid dream drifting awake in Alfie's bed to the sound of rain but when he woke again to sunlight spilling a strip across his cheek he realised it hadn't. The other side of the bed say empty and Tommy had laid his hand on the rumpled sheets, fingers curling into the residual warm before he tore it away like it burned.</p><p>The tea cup clinks as it's set down in front of him, the set is old and antique compared to the china his meals would be served on by Francis.</p><p>"Thank you," he says quietly and Ann bobs her head. Everything in this house is antique, past its time, from the furniture to the ghosts who wander the halls. Alfie a fallen king, or God by his mind, who surely should've died on the white plains beyond the front door but walks these halls like they're his kingdom. Maybe this place is purgatory; Tommy died in the moors of Warwickshire and joined him here as punishment. Ann is probably some devil keeping an eye on them.</p><p>This is the real world, Tommy knows. Most of the time. Nothing but life can bring this much hurt, leave him this raw like he's been dragged around Epsom by a prize stallion. Except there are moments- long and arduous, where reality and his nightmares merge as if the veil separating those two worlds has lifted. There, ghosts and memories do not wander, they stand and sit among his day as though judging his every move. Except her.</p><p>Ash from his cigarette flecks his white sleeve as his hand begins to tremble again. Hesitantly he glances sideways where in his peripheral she stands in the corner by the doorway, hands clasped in front of her. She never seems to entirely focus on him, looking toward something Tommy can't see and is afraid to. His angel, preserved as he remembers her best as that barmaid in the doorway calm before drunken soldiers and flames and coal, untouched. Before he touched her.</p><p>He closes his eyes and exhales slowly, breath shaking from him, rattling hatches in a storm. She hasn't spoken to him in a while now and he can't tell if he's relieved or wants to hear her just one more time. When he look again she's gone and so is Ann, the breakfast tray gone too. Alfie must be up and sat on the balcony. After yesterday his body has remembered how to move again all at once like the beach air really did help, or the confrontation. That seizing feeling in his chest when he thinks of Moseley has lessened and he can feel the rusted gears starting to turn, those machines that propelled him from the French dirt reborn into the chambers of Parliament. There's work to be done. As soon as he can move without needing to vomit or pass out.</p><p>Tea helps. Bless Ann for not forcing him to eat, after a few days she understood it isn't Tommy being stubborn it is physical. Instead she makes tea, very well. Proper tea like his father made over a fire in the woods before an early morning hunt, nothing floral that has to be diluted with milk to taste any good. He sips it, wetting his smoke-dried mouth. There's noise and Tommy sighs recognising the lumbering, cane-aided steps.</p><p>The steps stop in the doorway and Tommy takes his sweet, stubborn time looking over. Alfie stands, great shoulders hunched and fist clenched around his stick. He'd almost expected to see him standing there naked again but he's dressed, same as always. It's unnerving looking at the buttoned shirt and knowing what his broad chest looks like underneath. Alfie isn't a huge as he seems, now he's seen him naked Tommy's certain they employ the same technique of raised shoulders and big coats to exude size. He's still big, though, very big-</p><p>"Bit distracted this mornin', Tommy?" Alfie calls, breaking through Tommy's thoughts. Perfect timing. Tommy clears his throat and looks back at his tea, squeezing the cup like that's why he's warm all over.</p><p>"You know how it is, Alfie."</p><p>Alfie shuffles across the room. "I do, yeah. I do." He stops beside the table, pressing his hip into it for support and regarding Tommy as he scratches his beard. If he had twenty pence for every time they stopped and stared at each other, Tommy would be a needlessly richer man. "Any thoughts on what we discussed on the beach, yesterday?"</p><p>"Some..." Alfie picks up Tommy's teacup and slurps at it. "I do have a question, Alfie." His brow furrows as he swallows noisily, setting the cup down in front of Tommy like he'll be touching it after watching that.</p><p>"Go ahead."</p><p>"Why did you get involved?" Tommy can feel the cold wind on Alfie's balcony as he'd taken the view in for the first time. Feel his pulse rising for just a moment when Alfie's voice had echoed from the corridor. Alfie had almost made him smile, he hadn't smiled in weeks.</p><p>"You paid me, mate," Alfie replies simply.</p><p>Tommy tamps down his irritation at the deliberate ignorance Alfie likes to employ. "Money isn't all there is."</p><p>"No?"</p><p>"Not for men like you."</p><p>"Or you, yeah?" Alfie shakes his head and limps over to the window. The cold light ages his face beyond his years. "Naah... Tommy, men like Moseley... they're a new breed. There's somethin' dark in them, right? Not dark like you an' me, dark like... like those nights you sit in the mud and look at the night sky knowing, right, in just a few seconds or minutes or an hour it'll be hailing hellfire. A hate indiscriminately discriminant that'll draw good men, better men, into hatred they don't even understand."</p><p>Tommy can hear the whistle and his hand cramps tightly against his thigh. "And it's your job to stop them?"</p><p>"Same way it's yours, mate?" Alfie fires back, sending his a dark look. "Tommy this man, if you can call him that, he's the next bastard standin' in your way, yeah? Now I ain't in the fight anymore but I'm not about to let the crown go to a smarmy, Fascist cunt. Not to a boy who'd shake the hands of men who chased my mother with dogs."</p><p>Tommy feels cold suddenly. Remembers snow and cracked ice and the warm smell of horse hair that Alfie conjured from his forgotten memory with just a few words, and shaken him to his core. Alfie hasn't seem him naked (or not that he recalls from the first foggy days here) but he felt stripped bare. Known like very few people can know him. He hates it, wants to take a razor to Alfie's other eye most days, just do something.</p><p>"Like mother... like son." The words taste bitter this time and he shivers, pressing his thumb against his temple beside the scar that throbs uncomfortably.</p><p>"Ye-eah." Alfie hums softly. "Boys who take after their mothers are doomed, I think."</p><p>The shadows in the room seem to stretch, reaching out for them. The diamond cut edge of a Sapphire catches in the light out of the corner of his eye. "Think you might be right," Tommy replies quietly. There's something frighteningly sad on Alfie's scarred face when he turns back to him. For once Tommy can't quite meet his eye. "Ann won't be happy you wasted your food," Tommy mutters after a minutes silence.</p><p>Alfie hums. "I pay her enough to waste a few meals. God knows, she's tipped more in the bin since you've got here, hm? That an' cigarette butts."</p><p>Tommy snorts, taking a drag of his forgotten cigarette. It's burned halfway to the filter on its own. The tremor has gone and he flexes his fingers.</p><p>"Mr. Solomons? Mr-" Ann appears in the doorway with the tray of half eaten food, she sees them and looks disapproving. "There you are."</p><p>"Here I am," Alfie agrees grandly, opening his hands wide. Tommy forces down a smile as Ann huffs, setting the tray down heavily beside the sink and taking the egg cup from its surface.</p><p>"Sir, you may neglect your meal but you cannot miss your medication," she says firmly and holds out the cup. Alfie grumbles, picking up Tommy's tea as he passes and takes the medication. There's a small collection of pills inside that Alfie palms into his mouth all at once, throwing them back with a great gulp of luke-warm tea. Tommy wonders what they're for, how many more aliments and pains Alfie has that he doesn't say a word about it. They don't mention the aches, the coughs, his days bedridden. There's a silver spoon and glass bottle of morphine in the bedside table in Alfie's room, cap sealed.</p><p>Alfie smacks his lips after as if he'd downed a shot whiskey and Ann nods in approval, whisking the cup from his hand and bussing then to the sink. "Expecting a visit from your lovely sister soon, Tommy."</p><p>"That right?"</p><p>"Mm, in exchange for your asylum I bartered for the return of my dog."</p><p>"That's the measure of my worth, is it."</p><p>"A very high price, Tom. I gave you custody with the assumption you'd actually blow me head of properly, didn't I? Circumstances change." Behind him Ann stares wide-eyed and Tommy realises she mustn't have known where Alfie's injury came from. The shock registers for just a few seconds before she turns away as if she hadn't heard a thing, a maneuver well rehearsed by many house staff Tommy has known. And paid well for.</p><p>"You don't think it'll confuse him?" Tommy asks. He's reluctant to admit he had grown attached to the beast, especially the children- Ruby would totter about the house with one hand on his back for balance and Cyril would stoically walk beside her like it was his duty.</p><p>"Think I'd like to see 'im, right," Alfie chews his lip, leaning on the counter in front of Tommy. "Our last day together was a nice walk on the beach then seeing me get shot in the head." Tommy doubts the dog actually remembers any of that although he has an uncanny intelligence about him. "Besides he'll be wanting to see his new master, too. Be wonderin' where you've got to, won't he."</p><p>"I suppose so," Tommy murmurs. He remembers the first night Cyril entered his house, invaded his bed. It had been soothing like when he was a boy and left his bed after a nightmare to sleep in the hay when the horses were kept. The warm smell of hay, manure and the gentle sounds of horses shuffling in the dark would lull him back to sleep like his mother singing used to. His stomach churns uncomfortably and he wishes he had the tea now.</p><p>"I take it you know how to read?" Alfie asks suddenly, eye never leaving Tommy. He doesn't dignify that with an answer, offers a cold side-eye instead which- irritatingly-Alfie finds amusing nonetheless. "There's many, many books in this house in case you ha'n't noticed. Might make more stimulating company than the Budleia?"</p><p>Tommy sighs through his nose, feeling another headache coming on. "Can't read without me glasses, Alfie."</p><p>"Not at all?"</p><p>"Not without migraines."</p><p>"That from having your head busted open like a bad apple?" Alfie asks without an ounce of tack. Tommy inhales a deep lungful of smoke instead of sighing again so Alfie doesn't have the satisfaction of knowing he's getting to him again. Something about the tilt of Alfie's head says he knows he is anyway. His fingers itch to touch his shaved sides where the white scars speckle the short hairs but the newest injury still hurts to touch. Another tally to add to the mass. He doesn't know how he'll explain this one when he gets back, gold club to the head?</p><p>"Well, we'll see about getting your spectacles too, then," Alfie muses, attention slipping away to something in his head. Cutlery clinks loudly in the ensuing quiet as Ann washes the breakfast things. Then Alfie heaves a deep sigh and picks up his cane, swapping hands before limping out of the kitchen. Tommy blinks after him, unsurprised by the exit but frustrated by it. Alfie must do it on purpose, he thinks tapping another column of ash away.</p><p>The light rain for the night begins again, pattering softly against the leaves beneath the window and smattering the sill. It grows heavier until the kitchen is filled with the sound and Tommy's sleeves is wet. He watches it seep through, the cotton sticking to his forearm. The cigarette is burnt out and he turns his hand palm up into the open window, catching cool drops that follow the deep lines in his hand.</p><p>The teacup of ash is halfway full, Ann empties it out of the front door onto the stony driveway but she's elbows deep in washing still and Tommy needs to stretch his legs. He stands, holding onto the edge of the table for a moment when he legs protest after so long sat. Pins and needles prickle his calves but he shakes them off and picks up the cup between his thumb and forefinger, quietly making his exit.</p><p>Halfway to the front door his head starts throbbing with his footsteps so he slows, cursing his ambition. He isn't going turn back now, Ann would notice, he puts his free hand out onto the wall and keeps moving. He reaches the door a little breathless and grabs onto the handle, just leaning against it for a minute before wrenching it open. A gust of cool air bursts  in along with the sudden rush of rain meeting stone and Tommy closes his eyes, leaning into it.</p><p>There's something strange about a beach in a storm, Tommy's never seen anything like it. He's been out there, on the waves packed in with seasick soldiers and nurses in the heart of a ship. He's laid on the steps inside of the January listening to rain catches on the trees above the canal, from its deck watched the river dance as they meet. Here on the edge of the world he feels separated from it. The rain comes down straight as arrows and far off above the black water the clouds are darker, the sky between them and the surface blurred by the sheets coming down. It's like looking at a painting but he's balanced on the edge of the frame, a second from toppling into the oils.</p><p>Tommy sits on the doorstep and sets the cup aside, draws his knees up to balances his arms on them and watches. Rivulets of water gather around his bare feet and he curls his toes into them. There's not a soul around for as far as he can see down the flat sand until it curves out of sight. At this time of year it isn't very busy on a sunny day either but this feels different. Emptier.</p><p>He realises he's crying. Hot tears on his cold face, slipped free from eyes he'd thought had dried up a long time ago. His trembling fingers find each other between his knees, clasping together until his nails bite his skin. There's a quite thump as Alfie sets his cane down against the open door. Tommy's throat seizes up and he swallows convulsively.</p><p>He waits for the jab or remark but nothing comes; Alfie leans against the frame, then carefully manoeuvres his strangely fragile body onto the step beside Tommy. They only just fit into the space side by side, Alfie leans back on his hand as his bicep presses against Tommy's shoulder. His legs stretch out in front of him and cross at the ankles, rain instantly soaking his pale skin and trouser legs.</p><p>There's a flash somewhere inside the clouds and a shard of white light arches between the sky and sea. Tommy counts, distantly hears his mother and his own childish excited voice counting along. Thunder claps. The tears drip off his chin into his lap. He closes his eyes and pretends that it is the rain.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>is alfie standing up in the bath tantamount to a toddler pulling his pants down when he needs the bathroom? maybe...</p><p>the dream alfie has is based on a book i read as a kid called 'little black, a pony' that i loved the illustrations from, fun fact</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Jar of Blessings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so...... It's been a while... I'm very sorry..... please accept a rating change as penance?</p><p>EDIT 07/02/21: I've been made aware Marie isn't actually the nurses name in the show, I took it when I read it in another fic not realising it was an OC name! So I've changed it now, thanks to those who told me!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's a wedding happening. The church in town rings with celebratory bells and laughter from guests spilling through the doors onto the street. There is rice underfoot and the white ribbons on the bonnet of an battered, blue motorcar. Tommy lurks by the iron railings watching from afar, cigarette smouldering an inch from his lips as he remembers his own wedding. Weddings. In the Butcher's behind him Alfie negotiates loudly with the portly butcher over porkchops. They could be having a normal conversation but the butcher is hard of hearing and Alfie always sounds like he's having an argument. Tommy tuned them out five minutes ago, distracted by the commotion up the street.</p><p>Two cigarette butts and a large brown paper bag sit at his feet along with the butcher's Boarder Terrier tied to the fence gazing up at him. Apparently he can't be trusted inside the shop so during the day here is where he sits, petted by passersby and fed a sausage or two by Alfie whenever he makes the trip. Hence the solemn gaze, and puddle of drool also by his boots. Alfie's booming laughter drifts through the open door where a curtain of chains hang and tinkle in the breeze.</p><p>It's a serenely sunny autumn day, even though the chill bites at Tommy's bare fingers and nose the sunlight warms his bones. Since demonstrating an ability to walk more than five feet without falling over Ann has assigned him mandatory 'walkies' whether that is down to the waters edge or into town. He'll admit to no one but himself they've been good for him, and for Alfie who decided at some point to accompany him on nearly every one of these excursions. He'll talk or they'll talk, and walk and walk. Sea air, Alfie goes on about it constantly, cures all.</p><p>Today the town is even more deserted than when Tommy first arrived, its winter residence gathering for one last wedding before the cold freezes those bells and the doors lock up. The day seems to be on their side too with not a cloud in sight for the first time in a week. This particular walk had been desperately needed after three days inside with only Alfie for company and Marie unable to do a weekly shop on her bicycle thanks to the storm. From the door they'd been shooed with a shopping list and threatening instruction not to be back before the afternoon so she can do a thorough cleaning.</p><p>Tommy tilts his head toward the sky and closes his eyes, lids warmed by the sunlight. Alfie laughs again and Tommy sighs to himself, leaning to peer into the window at the two men having a good laugh over something or other. Alfie's smiling which looks... frightening. Metal shines in his teeth and the scarred side of his face twists strangely as the apples of his cheeks lift in a grin. Tommy can't take his eyes off it. The thing about men like them, most of them, is scars like that doesn't repulse or astound as they do then young boys and women. They've seen plenty of gaping wounds and bloated corpses, one healed scar on a living man is par for the course. Besides it suits Alfie, like the many golden rings and wide brim hat it adds to his aura of danger.</p><p>Alfie says something and makes the butcher chortle heartily, looks Alfie in the eye like he's an ordinary man. Tommy looks away, past the wedding, in the opposite direction toward the sea. The sky and the sea seem to blend together, the same sharp blue. As he raises the neglected cigarette to his mouth there's a sudden, very loud bang.</p><p>The newlyweds, having made their way through the crowd of well-wishers, start the car and the engine backfires. It cuts through the serene atmosphere like a gunshot. For a second Tommy hangs, balanced on a pinhead then the cigarette slips from his fingers and every tilts.</p><p>He's on his knees before he knows it, turned away from the street to protect his face from debris and clutching at the iron bars to brace for another cave in. If he wasn't holding on so tightly, knuckles white, he would be shaking. The breath is stuck in his lungs, throat closed up clogged by mud. Something touches him, not the sudden weight of the Earth swallowing him whole but the warm embrace of another soldier dragging him free.</p><p>"Up you get, there's a lad." The arm curls around his chest but he clings to the bars harder, afraid everything might give out underfoot if they move. The arm stops pulling but stays and then there's another hand, big and bejewelled covers his, fingers prying between Tommy's palm and the black iron. "Tommy, 's alright. Come on back, now."</p><p> Alfie.</p><p>"I-" He gasps at the suddenly rush of air into his chest like his lungs have just remembered how to breathe. Alfie hums like he's agreeing and this time when he tries Tommy lets himself be lifted. The solid wall of Alfie's frame shields him from- from nothing, from everything. Alfie's arm stays around his chest and Tommy can't help gripping his lapel as he stares past Alfie's shoulder, past the cobbled street, past the end of the lane and into a tunnel so deep he can't see the end, or perhaps the beginning, anymore. He comes back to himself with every successful lungful of oxygen. His legs gain feeling first and almost give out but Alfie's there, warm and holding him up with the ease of a much healthier man. Tommy realises they're breathing in time with each other.</p><p>Something wet touches his other hand hanging limply and he flinches. "Teddy, leave it out." Tommy curls his fingers away from the dogs mouth and squeezes his eyes closed, then opens them to see the street again flush with white and sunshine. A warm palm touches his cold face and it stings but he leans into it for one indulgent moment until he realises what he's doing. He starts extracting himself from Alfie' embrace, pushing his arm away but holding onto it when his legs wobble again.</p><p>"Back with us, then?" Alfie asks like he might enquiring after the forecast. Tommy swallows- his mouth tastes like bile- and nods, watching the congregation. Among them he sees shoulders drawn tightly, soothing hands on them, heads turned away in respect, and in shame. Some people are laughing, patting there chests from the shock and the newlyweds lean from the car apologising to the old woman in a large white hat.</p><p>"Your man alright there, Mr. Solomons?" The butcher calls from the doorway, a furrow in his brow.</p><p>"S'alright, Mikey, bit of a scare, yeah?" Alfie replies, waving his concern away and the butcher bobs his head in understanding. Tommy sees his smouldering cigarette next to his boot and bends to retrieve it, patting the terrier on the head before straightening.</p><p>"My boy's the same," he says and returns to the shop with a rustle of chains. Alfie hums to himself then peers at Tommy who returns the filter to his mouth, sucking hungrily.</p><p>"Righ'-O. Best be getting back before Marie sends a search party-" Alfie bobs the wrapped and string-tied cuts of meat in his arm. "-I've got the meat, right, you get the veggies." In no mood to negotiate, Tommy picks up the paper bags and walks off while Alfie bids farewell to the terrier. Inevitably, Alfie catches up to him (bastard can put on a spring in his step when it suits him) tapping the back of Tommy's leg with his cane as he joins him. Tommy gives his a sidelong glare.</p><p>"Embarrassed?"</p><p>Tommy exhales noisily. "What's embarrassin', Alfie?"</p><p>"Getting shocks like the rest of them mere morals," Alfie answers with a wave of his cane. "Reminds you that you're just another soldier in the mud, dunnit."</p><p>"That doesn't happen to me."</p><p>"What about the shovels in the walls?" Tommy's steps falter, he forgets how much Alfie knows, how much he lets slip around him.</p><p>"Only at night," Tommy answers softly, pinching the filter and flicking away some ash.</p><p>"So what happens in the daylight?"</p><p>"It was a bang, Alfie, a big bloody bang," Tommy snaps and waves two fingers at his cap-covered scar. "Last time I heard that there was a fuckin' gun next to my ear, eh? Shootin' meself in the head." Alfie quietly clacks along next to him for a minute then reaches out and takes one of the bags from Tommy. It makes Tommy want to yank the bag back but instead his fingers unclench and he lets it go. Alfie hoists it into his arm, slowing to place the wrapped cuts inside. Tommy reluctantly slows too so they don't fall out of step and takes the opportunity to light a new cigarette.</p><p>After a few minutes Tommy realises his heartbeat is steady again and he doesn't taste vomit. "Guns don't scare you?" He finds himself asks.</p><p>"Weren't a gun was it." Tommy sends Alfie a withering look that gets a slight smirk in return. "Nah, nah... None of that stuff really gets to me like it does with some lads."</p><p>"None?"</p><p>"It ain't always about the war, Tommy."</p><p>"Everythin's about war, Alfie."</p><p>"Hm, yeah. But there's different kinds, right? The War we fought for king an' country and war we fight when we got home." Alfie pauses, watching the cobbles pass underfoot. "Killed a kid, killed quite a few, but this one- barely seventeen I'll bet. Won't make a different if I tell you why but he was working for some not nice blokes, hit his head so hard against a fuckin' wall, popped him open like a melon. I've watched-" Alfie fingers fan wide around his cane, rings glinting. "-nails get yanked from a man's hand with pliers, right, screamed so high we though his balls had gone right back up in 'im. Spent days workin' men over until they're nothin' but... piss and blood and tears on the floor, they'd tell me anythin'- truth or not- for it to be over. Just for me to put 'em out of their misery. They've thanked me for puttin' a barrel to their heads."</p><p>Alfie's fingers curl back around the cane, pale and strangely elegant compared to Tommy's thick digits but both of them bloody, and weathered with callouses and lines. The terraces have fallen away to houses parted by greater and greater lengths, cobble gone and grass footpath under their feet. Here no one would see if Tommy lifted Alfie's hand and pulled it flat to read his lines and compare their prints, as if there might be some special mark or whorl on the hands of bad men. He doesn't do it.</p><p>"That's what I dream about, yeah? Shit I saw in trenches was... senseless, I couldn't make sense of it. What I do, all makes sense to me, each one was justified whether it was for a good reason or not. I don't dream about the kids I watched slaughtered because I didn't do it, I couldn't stop it and I knew it'd happen. The murders over here were mine, all mine. So they're the company I keep, and rightfully so, innit?" The last of the humour has drained from Alfie's voice leaving it empty and tired. Tommy stops at the top of the path down to the house and Alfie stops with him, waiting for him to finish his cigarette.</p><p>"Alleged," Tommy mutters, flicking the butt into the sandy ground and grinding his heel into it.</p><p>Alfie blinks. "What's that?"</p><p>"Alleged murders, Alfie," Tommy explains and taps the side of his nose. Alfie blinks at that then chuckles, shoulders jostling with the force of it and Tommy conceals a satisfied smirk.</p><p>"Right, right... C'mon, Ann'll have supper on by now."</p><p>Alfie leads them into the house, not bothering to discard his shoes or coat at the door (which Tommy manages to do and still catches up with Alfie's lumbering gait) and sweeping directly into the kitchen where a warm, savoury smell dissipates the last of the bad taste in Tommy's mouth. Ann looks up from stirring a pot on the stove, cheeks pink from the heat, her brow furrows instantly when she sees Alfie's boots.</p><p>"Mr. Solomons-"</p><p>"Ann, darlin'," Alfie coos, sitting the grocery bag on the counter as Tommy does the same, and opening his arms to her as if offering a hug. Ann glares and Alfie turns in a circle to Tommy, hands falling to his hips. "She learned that from you?" Tommy holds up both hand in deference, fighting another treacherous smile. "Well, Ann, I'll have you know, yeah, I'm immune to the Shelby stare."</p><p>"This is no 'Shelby stare', it's my very own brand of 'take off those bloody shoes or you'll not be having dinner' stare. Sir." Tommy leans his hip against the counter, toying with another cigarette as he watches the two stubborn mules stand-off. Alfie finally places a hand over his heart, looking between her and Tommy.</p><p>"She makes a fine point."</p><p>"That she does," Tommy offers quietly.</p><p>"Suppose I better do as she says."</p><p>"Suppose so."</p><p>"Blimey, I'm fightin' a one man war against this entire household," Alfie grumbles and hobbles out of the kitchen. Ann meets Tommy's eyes and smiles, for once quite genuinely instead of that frightened polite smile she forces out.</p><p>"He's in a good mood," she says, sounding pleased. "The walks do him good." Tommy hums tapping the butt of his unlit cigarette against the packet. "Does the both of you some good. Nice to see some colour in those cheeks," she adds, replacing the lid on the pot and wiping his hands on her apron. She steps over to Tommy and pushes his fringe up to palm his forehead. His hair is growing out again, the stubble around his skull noticeable and bristly, and his mop falling around his eyebrows.</p><p>"What's the verdict?" Tommy asks.</p><p>"Well enough to unpack the groceries." Tommy chuckles and does as he's told, chewing on the filter in his mouth as he digs into the bags. As Ann tidies away the ends of the vegetables she used, she hums to herself. It's something old, a poem put to music. He can smell freshly turned earth again, clinging to the back of his throat and eyelids. Somewhere in the dark Johnny is humming it too as they wait for something to happen, it never does. There's a stain on the table top, a dark patch on the light wood, Tommy can't take his eyes off it.</p><p>"Mr. Shelby?" He blinks. The smell of stewing vegetables reaches him.</p><p>"Ann," he answers, taking the moist cigarette end out of his mouth and rubbing his lip.</p><p>"Would you find Mr. Solomons for me? I'm afraid he's buggered off somewhere with those shoes still on and I shan't be sweeping up the sand he's trailed in."</p><p>The woman's kindness comes in quiet ways; gently placed teacups determinedly refilled even if they had been left to go cold, a fresh packet of cigarettes on the dinner tray. She has the way of his mother about her, soft with hard edges that you would feel the brunt of when she has had enough nonsense. In this moment she saw the distance growing in the black of Tommy's eyes and knew his mind needed dragging back to the present. Tommy flicks the smoke into the bin as he passes it.</p><p>He retraced his steps. The body on the floor doesn't quite register at first then Tommy stops, staring between Alfie's one bare foot and the shoe resting in his limp hand.</p><p>"Ann," he hears himself yell hoarsely. "Ann!" He steps over Alfie's prone leg to get to his side, kneeling down and reaching out. His hand is trembling as he touches Alfie's neck trying to remember where the pulse is supposed to be but preoccupied with the flecks of blood on Alfie's lips. A warm, strong hand pushes his aside, Ann tucks two fingers under Alfie's beardy jaw.</p><p>"He's still here," Ann says but her tone isn't reassuring. Tommy swallows, watching her and then Alfie's pale unconscious face. He doesn't look here, he doesn't look anywhere near here. "Mr. Solomons? Alfie, sir?" Ann calls softly, placing the back of his hand against his forehead then using two fingers to push his lip down, showing the blood staining his crooked teeth. Her eyebrows draw together in concern but she says nothing and Tommy is left burning with questions. "Tommy-" The use of his first name makes him jerk. "-Fetch my medical bag from my room, please. It's the black leather one, next to the wardrobe."</p><p>Using the wall to help him, Tommy stands unsteadily and jogs down the corridor to Ann's room. He's never been in there but his focus is entirely on finding the bag, too occupied to notice anything more than the neat, white bedspread. The bag is heavier than it looks and he almost drops it in his haste to return, when he does Ann is talking quietly to Alfie.</p><p>"He's awake?"</p><p>"For a moment, he's gone again. Hand it over." The bag slips from his hand to hers, the weight baring nothing on Ann as she moves it to her side and undoes the clasp. As she pulls out a stethoscope Tommy kneels again, feeling dizzy but watching Alfie intently for something, any sign of life. He can smell wet coal. Ann's hand slides between the buttons of Alfie's shirt at the same time as Tommy's finds his limp grip and seizes a hold of it. His fingers are warm, so much thinner than his.</p><p>"I need you to lift him, can you do that?" Ann asks. Tommy nods and clambers over him to her side, pushing Alfie's dead-weight by his shoulder and hip so Ann can reach under him. The diaphragm disappears and in the silence Tommy can hear the pulse of his blood rushing through his ears. Ann pulls her hand back and Tommy settles Alfie back down, trying to be gentle.</p><p>"Ann, what's happening?"</p><p>"I'm not sure, Mr. Shelby, but you had best call Doctor Speirs at the hospital."</p><p>Tommy only speaks to the doctor for a moment before Ann is there, sliding the phone from his hand and ushering him back down the corridor, telling him to keep an eye on Alfie's breathing. He ends up sitting with Alfie's hand in his lap, one leg stretched out when it starts to twinge.</p><p>He loses time between the phone call and Speirs arrival, consumed by watching Alfie's chest rise and fall in uneven breaths. Feet shuffle around them, voice humming like the radio in the morning but nowhere near so serene.</p><p>Eventually Ann touches his shoulder, making him stand and step back so Alfie can be moved. He lets go of Alfie's hand only when it's out of reach. Instead of taking him out of an ambulance, he's carried into the house and Tommy blinks.</p><p>"Nothing to be done by taking him to the hospital. Better he rest here," Ann tells him quietly, squeezing his arm. The nurses and doctor flutter in and out of view like the birds Alfie points his gun at when the mood takes him.</p><p>"Rest..." Tommy repeats at a lose.</p><p>"Yes, rest. He'll be on his feet again." Through the doorway Tommy watches Alfie's limp form get tucked into bed, half hidden beneath the duvet and blankets.</p><p>"His lungs, Ann, he said-" Riddled with it was how Alfie had put it. Then Tommy had shot him in the face. He swallows with difficulty.</p><p>"That cancer is in remission. Bloody miracle of some kind, fed into his God complex even further," Ann tuts with fond exasperation.</p><p>"That..." Tommy trails off, eying the nurses who pass and bid their solemn farewells. "'That' cancer?"</p><p>"Yes, he-" Ann glances into the room, the hand on Tommy's forearm squeezing again. "His skin, dear, you've noticed. The operations got a great deal of it while they were in there repairing his cheek after the- well." Marie pats his arm and drops her hand. "He'll have another surgery soon but until then... He's been pushing himself since you got here, overdone it a tad I think. Especially with the Scoliosis too."</p><p>Tommy stares off dumbly, not entirely sure what she means anymore just that Alfie is being held together by sheer force of will and medication.</p><p>"Sit with him, Tommy, call for me if he wakes."</p><p>For a moment they linger there both looking into the dark room then she turns one way and he goes the other. It's cool and dark in Alfie's bedroom, a crack of light pours through the curtain but it is fading as the afternoon draws into evening.</p><p>At his bedside Tommy looks at the table, a half melted candle and medical detritus among a set of glasses and a brass clock. His knee brushes something, he looks down at Alfie's hand hanging limp at the edge of the bed. He takes it, peering at the rings for a moment before tucking it onto Alfie's chest. When he does the fingers caught between his twitch.</p><p>"Shelby..." Alfie croaks, eyes rolling beneath their lips before appearing in a sleepy squint. Tommy retreats to find his cigarettes in his pocket.</p><p>"Hello, Alfie," Tommy murmurs, striking a match. "Gave Ann quite a scare."</p><p>Alfie sighs a little laugh. "Like to... keep her on her toes, eh." They're quiet for a while, Tommy knows Ann told him to find her but he can't seem to move his feet. "Just a small favour, Tommy."</p><p>"What's that, Alfie?"</p><p>"The morphine if you will." Tommy glances at the drawer where he knows the bottle lays, unopened all this time. Until now. The drawer squeaks as he pulls it open and retrieved the bottle and spoon, twisting the cap that cracks ominously.</p><p>He sits on the mattress edge to steady himself, pours a half measure and offers the dose. Alfie cranes his neck, Tommy watches the spoon passing between his lips that meet at the neck. Tommy watches his lips drag as he pulls it back, torn from his trance when Alfie sighs and flops back against the pillows. He stands, casts the glistening spoon onto the table alongside the bottle and flexes his hand uncomfortably.</p><p>"You wanna fuck me, Tommy, yeah?" The question is sudden and quiet, takes all the air out of the room. Tommy reveals nothing though he does pause briefly, fingers poises either side of his cigarette with his eyes fixed somewhere around Alfie's shoulder. "Should get that out the way, right, before the medicine starts talkin' for us. Maybe 'cause... it means somethin', to you but... I don't get fucked, Tommy." Alfie's eyelids flutter wildly and he waves his paw in an absent way. "You was born on the back of a horse, though, that I'd like to watch." His eyelids droop. "Wouldn't have to do a thing, just lay back..."</p><p>"Go to sleep, Alfie," Tommy says quietly, frozen feet finally thawing enough to step back to his bedside and place the cap on the morphine bottle. Seal broken, insides spilled. When he looks at Alfie again those deep, painfully lines that etch his face are smoothed with sleep. Strands of greasy hair cling to sweaty forehead, dirty blond and brown. There is a strange gentleness to Alfie's brutal form that comes through in his sleep, the full lips hidden under a curtain of wiry hair and those long, pianist fingers made brutish by large rings and leathered skin.</p><p>With not a thought in his head Tommy reaches out and runs his forefinger down the slope of Alfie's elegant nose. Alfie's breath warms his palm as he lingers, finding himself breathing in time with the rise and fall of Alfie chest. He pulls his hand back to his cigarette where its stuck to his dry lip, taking it between two fingers and rubbing his nose with his thumb, a phantom itch.</p><p>There's something shapeless in the corner of his mind but it doesn't flash with the cold edge of a carved Sapphire; it burns like the last embers in a fireplace at night, shades of hot coal and cloudy ale. Tommy closes his eyes against the heat of it like he would into the first rays of sunlight breaking through a cloud. It's dangerous, sends him right back to sitting in the empty Garrison and listening to a nightingale sing. He sighs to himself and leaves Alfie's side, leaving the feeling behind with him.</p><p>-</p><p>The dough is too wet. Alfie lifts and folds the edge of it with the scraper, wiping his sticky hand on the apron around his waist. He lifts the bag of flour from the other side of the table and dumps a handful onto it, folding it in until the dough looks a little less like regurgitated oatmeal. With a heavy sigh he re-flours his hand and has another go at kneading it. This time it work and his hands don't stick so much. There's flour all over the counter and cast across the stove where he had dropped the bag in frustration before, his cup of tea has met the same fate too with clumps floating in its surface.</p><p>Thing is, Alfie can't bake... The irony isn't lost on him, man ran a "bakery" for years and didn't bother to properly keep up the ruse by knowing how to do his supposed trade. It's not that he doesn't know, it's that... well, he's bloody awful at it. Something about his hands deflates the dough, burns it, dries it, even sets it on fire. Years ago his housekeeper had said he's too hot blooded but Alfie isn't sure she was talking about why he can't bake. </p><p>It had never been a inclination of his to try before- his meals came from the housekeeper, Ollie procuring something for nowhere, nice restaurants during business deals. Yet Margate is a place out of time where it slips by like melting wax on a candle stick, where Alfie can spend his time reading and shooting at ships with not a care for the rise and fall of the sun. After a certain amount of time, though, even that gets repetitive- especially for the neighbours. He made it through most of his collection (and the library in town) before turning to the recipe books for a change and within them he found a new determination to try again. </p><p>Just as he had sat down by the canal edge in Camden with a bottle of watery ale and thought 'I'm going to buy that building and brew the shittiest whiskey this town has even know', Alfie had stood up from his wicker rocking chair and said to Ann 'I'm going to bake fucking bread'. Bake he did, but bread it wasn't. Mere hours later Ann had quietly tossed the blackened lump into the bin and set about making dinner while Alfie glared at the ocean in frustration. That cycle continued for many days.</p><p>Eventually, the dough stops sticking to his palms and forms a smooth, bouncy oval; beautiful among the detritus its conception created. Alfie pats his hands on his apron again regarding it speculatively then before his very eyes it begins to crack, splitting down the middle like an eggshell on a frying pan. From its suddenly hollow insides three scrawny blackbirds start cawing, beaks protruding and clacking at the sky in search of their mother. Something wet and warm splatters Alfie's bare toes and he looks down down finding his flour covered palm now soaked in blood. When he looks up again the birds are gone and cracked egg is a cracked open skull, its face awfully familiar from the floor of his bakehouse, gurgling their final breath before Alfie would send their body back to the gang of knobs he came from. The mouth- what Alfie assumes is the mouth it could just be another bloody hole in its head- gapes open in a silent scream and Alfie wakes with a jolt.</p><p>He wheezes loudly, finding his nose and head stuffy like he has caught a cold overnight. The room, his bedroom he sees when he manages to turn his sore neck, is overly warm and soaked in darkness not a hint of light peeping from behind the curtains. He flexes his hand, feels his knuckles crack, fingers devoid of their usual weight of gold. His body aches in a familiar way, from spending too long laying on his bed, then he remembers collapsing in the hallway. He sighs to himself, touching his chest and recalling the taste of blood and syrupy morphine on his tongue.</p><p>There's a soft noise from his left and if he weren't still so tired he would've flinched. On top of the duvet the familiar form of Tommy sleeps, curled toward Alfie, face half burrowed in the pillow under his head. It starkly reveals the scarred side of his scalp, much healed but still vivid pink (or would be in better light) among the overgrown stubble. Tommy's socked foot is pressed against his calf, one hand reaching into the space between them.</p><p>"Tommy," he croaks without meaning to (fuck, his face aches) and instantly Tommy stirs, fingers curling and uncurling in the blanket like the paw of a cat. His heavy eyelids lift enough to peer at Alfie blearily. "Wakey, wakey, sweetheart." He means it to be condescending but it comes out uncomfortably soft.</p><p>Tommy sighs. "Alfie." Closing his eyes again and shifting. "It's late, Alfie."</p><p>"How late?"</p><p>Tommy tilts his wrist to look at the watch fastened there. "Four. A.M."</p><p>"Disrupting your beauty sleep am I now?" There's no answer from Tommy who blinks at him, eyes sliding over Alfie's features in a lazy way that makes him feel sleepy again. "Was dreamin'..." Alfie mumbles apropos of nothing.</p><p>"I know. You... talk."</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"Wasn't English." Alfie hums, he speaks a few languages. The room feels like a hot bath, soaking up all the tension and stifling any coherent thoughts from his head.</p><p>"Dreamed 'bout... bread and birds. Sunshine on January. Catchin' frogs on the riverbank. Blue, blue, blue," Alfie murmurs, all his dreams rushing through his mind at once. He didn't realise he had closed his eyes until he opens them again, looking into that same shade of blue. They lay quietly for a moment, Alfie can feel himself slipping away again. "Tommy."</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"C'mere." Alfie curls his fingers inward. As his hand closes Tommy shifts across the duvet, its not far for him to be pressed against Alfie's side, his cold hand riding the creases in Alfie's shirt until his fingers tickle his beard.</p><p>"Well?" Tommy breaths, lashes drooping heavily. "Here I am, Alfie."</p><p>"Mm," Alfie palms the bristly back of Tommy's neck. "That you are, Tommy."</p><p>There's no dragging him into a kiss, not a collision or a rush, just the final grains of sand tipping the scale. He grips Tommy's jaw, guiding him at the right angle to avoid his scarred cheek. Alfie's lips are chapped and cracked, and Tommy's are dry. That warm feeling in the room seeps into the kiss, into the wet touch of tongues and scrap of teeth. He feels Tommy's hand bunch in his shirt, pressing his collar against the back of his neck. Tommy's lips scrape his beard and moustache, his adjusts his head like he hasn't kissed someone with facial hair before and Alfie supposes he probably hasn't.</p><p>The kiss ends with a shaky exhale from whom neither could say. Tommy lingers breathing against Alfie's parted lips. He isn't shaking but the hand clutching Alfie's shirt is white knuckled and his breaths are forcefully slow. Alfie follows the rigid line of his back with his fingers like the grooves in a record, carefully with his fingertips wondering what music he'll find in them. Something in Tommy seems to unfurl and he stretches out, spine curving swanlike under Alfie's hand.</p><p>"That's it," Alfie murmurs in satisfaction, petting Tommy's stubbled neck. "That's right." Tommy sinks into another kiss, inhaling sharply when Alfie's fingers close in the messy nest of hair atop his head. The duvet dips between his legs under the weight of Tommy's knee moving between them, more unconscious than deliberately provocative. Not that it can do much for him, Alfie's too old and tired and riddled with drugs to feel anything more than a ripple of pleasure up his spine.</p><p>Apparently that isn't the case for Tommy, there is an obvious weight against his hip from just these few touches. A quiet possessive feeling seizes Alfie, he drags his hand down past the point of decency and onto the soft, plush curve where Tommy's thigh and arse meet, digging in hard. The kiss breaks in a gasp, Tommy mouth pressing sloppily into his cheek as he rocks up uncertainly, encouraged by Alfie's squeezing palm.</p><p> Alfie growls. "C'mon, sweetheart, I'm not getting it up tonight but fuck it if I ain't gonna watch you cream your fuckin' shorts-"</p><p>"Fuck-" Tommy mutters tightly, smearing his wet lips and burning hot cheekbones under Alfie's jaw into the dark security of his shoulder. "Alfie-"</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah," Alfie sighs absently, Buzzing with heat as he stares at the ceiling and relishes the feeling of Tommy debase himself against his thigh. For a while the pace oscillates between languid and frantic, Tommy rolling his hips as if he were fucking a woman Alfie thinks ruefully. The proceedings come to a sudden halt but Alfie didn't feel the shudder or clutch of a climax, Tommy keeps breathing unsteadily against his damp throat.</p><p>Eventually Alfie hums in question. "Dizzy," Tommy grits in response. Alfie knows he means his head has stymied the pleasure from cresting, whether it has anything to do with 'dizziness' remains to be seen. "Shit," Tommy sighs and rolls off him taking all the warmth with him, squeezing the front of his trousers in a painfully gesture of frustration. They lay side by side staring at the ceiling, Alfie listens to Tommy's breathing slow with a tinge of frustration.</p><p>"You ever actually fucked a man before?"</p><p>"Fuck off," Tommy snaps.</p><p>"I mean proper, like put your little cock in 'em kind of fuckin'."</p><p>"Fuck's sake," Tommy groans, sitting up and retrieving his cigarettes and lighter where they have been conveniently left on the opposite bedside table.</p><p>"Dizziness cleared up pretty quick then," Alfie says mildly, watching knowingly as Tommy falter while lighting up. He links his fingers together on his chest and waits.</p><p>"You weren't even hard," Tommy comments eventually, gesturing vaguely and keeping his eyes firmly forward.</p><p>"In case it has escaped your notice, right-" Alfie throws back the covers and gestures to his torso. "-I'm a bed ridden cripple spooning morphine. Gonna take a bit more than some over the clothes action to get me goin', yeah?" In the dim light the tip of Tommy's cigarette flares brightly, illuminating the deep curve of his cheekbone and gaunt eye sockets, ugly elegance Alfie finds irresistible. "No you, though. I take it as a compliment, really, a testament to my prowess as a lover." Tommy's fist clenches and he's certain there is pink on his cheeks. "Got your britches all tight over a nice little kiss, didn't I."</p><p>"Fuck. Off," Tommy say, far too quietly to be convincing. Besides, this is Alfie's bloody room.</p><p>"Yeah? Want me to fuck off, Tommy? Or just want to fuck?" Finally Tommy looks at him, expression tight with hidden anger and embarrassment. "That's what I thought. Bet you would've cum from that if you hadn't been overthinkin' it. Suppose that's what you need, innit? To get out of that head of yours."</p><p>"Least I can get it up, eh?" Tommy throws back, sucking up a lung full to aggressively punctuate the point.</p><p>"Never heard that that was your issue, mate." Yeah, Alfie has spies and Alfie has heard all kinds of juicy little details- prostitutes, spies, Russians, communists; Tommy's type seems to be anything with two legs he can get between. "But it's Love that does it, innit. Love's the only thing that messes with a mind like that, right, tried to put a bullet right in it because of it. I ain't looking for love, Tommy, neither is you. Two lost fucking souls wandering the watery purgatory that is Margate looking for a little..." Alfie trails off, the thread of his tangent slipping from between his fingers. "It's a cold bloody existence, 's why we seek shelter in the booze and the... women. Just to get some warmth. Why shouldn't blokes such as ourselves seek it in each other?"</p><p>Tommy tilts his head to one side, peering at Alfie, eyes sparkling black in the dark. "You incapable of love, Alfie?" The question is asked painfully softly, makes Alfie blink.</p><p>Not incapable, just realistic. There was a woman and a child, now there is another woman and two children. Alfie doesn't know if Tommy loves her the same, it seems closer to... An arrangement, understanding with occasional tenderness between two damaged people. What he is certain of? Tommy will go back. This is a man who won't stop moving until something, or someone, cuts him off at the knees and then he'll drag himself onward bleeding until they finish the job. Margate is a pitstop and at times Alfie wonders if, when Tommy leaves, he'll ever see him again or one day he will open the paper and among the obituaries will be Thomas Shelby OBE. Alfie will close the paper, drink his tea and listen to the birds scream bloody murder. He's oddly comforted by the certainty that if it were vice versa Tommy would do just the same.</p><p>He blinks, returning to the bedroom. Tommy is watching him still, cigarette smouldering between two fingers. "Never said that, did I."</p><p>"No. You didn't." Carefully Tommy lays back, stretching to stump out his cigarette. Once again, for the one thousandth times, they stare at each other but this time Alfie is the one waiting and ignoring the Goosebumps rising on his skin. After a while Tommy reaches out, resting his hand in Alfie's lap over his distinctly flaccid cock. Alfie exhales.</p><p>"Isn't gonna happen, mate." Tommy's gaze drops, eyelashes dark and heavy. "Could sort you out, though, yeah?" Alfie reaches out too and skims the waist of Tommy's trousers. "I'll be gentle, sweetheart."</p><p>Tommy licks his lips. "Fuck off, Alfie," he murmurs but all he does is sigh when Alfie pushes his fingers under waistband toward the heat of his half-hard cock. It doesn't take long for him to firm up under Alfie's dry grasp, Tommy closes his eyes and tips his head back against the pillow. He watches his lips, wettened by his tongue and obscene, he wants to bite them. He looks... The masculine sharp angles of his face are softened by feminine curves, a contretemps that construed his features as both alien and angelic depending on the eye of the beholder. To Alfie he looks unreal.</p><p>Under Tommy's hand he feels himself stir, feels Tommy's hand tighten in reaction. Alfie groans softly, hitching his leg up and stroking Tommy off a little more tightly. It almost feels like a contest but what exactly winning or losing is, Alfie can't tell. He grunts when Tommy shoves his hand inside his briefs.</p><p>"Tommy-"</p><p>"Shut up."</p><p>"Thought you- thought you liked it when I talked, hm?" Alfie pants, getting hard and light-headed at the same time. "Could talk all night 'bout how wet you are-" He deliberately thumbs the slick tip of him and Tommy bows off the bed. Alfie would too if he could but he feels heavy, feverish with forced arousal that burns on the right side of painful. All his attention is on Tommy though, feeling and watching him unravel. Tommy's strokes are awkward and become inconsistent as he edges closer, Alfie's certain he must be soaking through his pants. "-Wet like a fuckin' girl aren't you." Tommy gasps, arcing and suddenly coming in hot spurts over Alfie's hand.</p><p>"Shiiit," Alfie groans, shuddering and hurriedly dragging his hand out of Tommy's pants and into his own. He grips Tommy's slack hand, lacing his come stained fingers through Tommy's hand jerking himself off hard and fast. Tommy opens his eyes and meets Alfie's. There's a hazy quality to those piercing blues. "Want me to fuck off, Tommy?" Alfie mutters breathlessly.</p><p>"Want you to fucking cum already." Alfie moans a laugh, twisting their hands just the way he likes and dragging the climax out of himself. He hears Tommy make a noise hidden under his panting breaths, his fingers flexing under Alfie's as he adds to the mess. It hurts, makes his balls sting and gut ache but squeezes just a little harder and sighs shakily in pleasure. There are tears in the corners of his closed lids and when he blinks them open he sees Tommy watching him, those pupils the size of pennies.</p><p>Tommy kisses him, breathless and sloppily, he tries to pull his hand back but Alfie tightens his grip, holding it tightly. Cooling come smears his stomach as he takes it out for him. He holds their hands up, fists glistening in the dim light, Tommy is looking too until Alfie hums and draws his attention. He brings their hands down between their face making Tommy go cross eyed, lips drawn like he wants to make a face at the mess. Alfie would laugh if he weren't so sated, instead he sticks out his tongue and draws it over Tommy's knuckle down between two twitching fingers. It isn't a taste he's partial to but to look Tommy in the eye and watch him resist squirming as he swallows makes it worth it.</p><p>Alfie smacks his lips. "Mm, notes of... tobacco and sea-salt?" He murmurs, leaning in for another taste. Tommy tries to pulls his hand back but Alfie resists, a funny kind of arm-wrestle ensuing as he takes another tongue full.</p><p>"Kiss me now," Alfie says, licking his bottom lip clean even though he's certain there are drops caught in his beard. He squeezes Tommy's hand hard enough to feel the bones shift painfully. Tommy looks momentarily furious then lunges forward sinking his teeth into Alfie's mouth, devouring and enraged like he's trying to take something back from Alfie. It's the most satisfying feeling. He lets go of Tommy's hand and he immediately presses it into Alfie's shirt, wiping both sides of his fingers clean.</p><p>Alfie snorts. "Yeah, alright. Happy now?" Doing the same with his own hand before plucking at the buttons. Tommy's fighting a smile he can tell but he shrugs and lays back, watching Alfie struggle to take of the soiled shirt while laying down. When he does, wiping his face before dropping it onto the floor and sending Ann a mental apology, he pulls the duvet back up and over the both of them. His thoughts are scattering again, consciousness caught cosily between the warmth and smell of sex.</p><p>It takes a minute or two before Tommy's hand, undercover of the sheets, slips under the hem of Alfie's vest onto his hot skin. "Sweet thing," Alfie slurs, clumsily lacing his fingers through Tommy's. "Have you pecking seeds from my hand in no time."</p><p>An answer comes mere seconds before Alfie has drifted off, whispered into the darkness between them. "Shut up, Alfie."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I enjoy writing Alfie's odd prophetic dreams, are they boring?</p><p>Thank you for reading x</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>first foray into the pb universe, this is probably going to take a while to finish so bare with me!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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